Stronger Than Hope
by Alaunatar
Summary: AU after OoTP, a few HBP details. An obsessed, grieving Harry has decided on a dangerous way to defeat Voldemort. Snape is paying closer attention than before, but his contempt for Harry blinds him. Eventual Snape as Harry's guardian story. COMPLETE
1. The Benefits of a Clear Mind

**Title**: Stronger Than Hope

**Summary:** AU after OotP, a few HBP details. An obsessed, grieving Harry has decided on a dangerous way to defeat Voldemort. Snape is paying closer attention than before, but his contempt for Harry blinds him. Eventual Snape as Harry's guardian story.

**Disclaimer**: All characters involved belong to J. K. Rowling and her associates. I write this story solely out of admiration and with no intent to profit.

**Rated For: **Suicidal thoughts and discussions of suicide attempts, violence, adult language, and Snape being a bastard. (I mean it; he's _really_ not nice in this story at first, and won't be for a long time.) No sex, as there are no pairings.

**Notes: **Hi. This is a story I thought I'd write. It takes place after OOtP and is mostly AU, but some details from HBP show up, mostly smaller ones (such as Snape's background and the character of Rufus Scrimgeour). If you haven't read _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_, this story **will** spoil it for you, but it doesn't follow that book's plot.

I hope to update this regularly-irregularly- I'll try to make it frequent, but it won't follow an exact schedule. I have about an hour to write each day, and while I plan to take full advantage of that, longer chapters will require more time and more extensive editing. I **will** let it be known if I'm abandoning the story, though. I don't plan to.

Finally, the title comes from a Ted Hughes poem called "Examination at the Womb-Door"—"Who is stronger than hope? _Death._"

**Stronger Than Hope**

_Chapter 1: The Benefits of a Clear Mind_

No human voice spoke to Harry Potter that summer.

That didn't mean he never _heard_ them, of course. He'd hear Dudley whinging every time Aunt Petunia tried to coax him into some stricter variation of his diet, and Uncle Vernon waffling on about something in the paper that displeased him, and voices on the telly when they all watched it together in the evening. But he was never invited to intrude, and none of the Dursleys tried to talk to him anymore. Aunt Petunia gave him meals and narrow-eyed glances of distaste in utter silence. Uncle Vernon scowled, and Dudley just turned away, probably to hide the look of fear on his face.

The Order's warning had done its work. The Dursleys didn't mistreat Harry. But they seemed to have decided they'd get revenge by not speaking to him.

So Harry lay on his bed and listened to the voices of his thoughts.

They all spiraled and turned around a single center: Sirius's death. And the conclusions they whispered to him became more and more reasonable. Harry tried to argue against them at first, but he only had an occasional letter from Ron and Hermione, short and cryptic, or one from Dumbledore, announcing that it was too dangerous for Harry to leave his relatives' home and he'd have to stay there the whole summer, to make a difference.

And—

Well. The more he thought about it, the more he could see that it _had_ been his fault.

He'd tried to shift the blame onto other people, onto Snape and Dumbledore and Bellatrix Lestrange and even Sirius himself, but that was what a child would do. Snape was only being a git. He'd probably wanted Sirius dead, but he hadn't helped it along that much. He could have killed Sirius a long time ago if he'd really wanted him dead, and probably done it with some untraceable potion.

Dumbledore… Harry still wished Dumbledore had talked to him, but he could understand why the Headmaster hadn't. There was just too much at stake. And he _had_ come in the end and rescued Harry from Voldemort, hadn't he, and dueled Voldemort? He'd made mistakes, but none of them had led directly to Sirius's death.

Bellatrix Lestrange was crazy. She'd killed Sirius. But she wasn't the one who'd brought him to the Department of Mysteries in the first place. If Harry hadn't gone, then she would have had to go and find someone else to kill.

It _wasn't _Sirius's fault. Harry was even surer about that now than he was about it not being Dumbledore's fault. The conviction burned inside him with the force of a flame. Sirius had been reckless, but he'd loved life, and he'd loved Harry. He'd made the offer for Harry to come and live with him. He was just trying to help, and he'd had enough of being cooped up in that awful house with only Buckbeak and Kreacher and the portrait of his mother for company. He'd _died_ because he was trying to help.

Meanwhile, Harry hadn't thought clearly enough about the visions and the fact that it was _Voldemort_ peering into his head, or what he was doing. He'd had the chance of Occlumency lessons to stop the dreams, and bollocksed them up. He'd charged off into danger, taking a bunch of half-trained friends with him. No, none of the rest of them had been killed, but they'd been _hurt_.

And Sirius was dead.

Harry kept trying to spin excuses, for a while, but when he stopped blaming other people, he saw that he had none left. The truth was bright and clear before him, and he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Sirius was dead. It was his fault.

Other truths came out and joined that one, the longer he lay there and thought about it, thinking about nothing else, while the sunlight stared in through the window, or rain and darkness hammered down.

If he kept acting as though he could save the world without proper training, he _wouldn't_ save it.

If he charged into danger and took other people with him, those other people _would_ get hurt and killed. That was going to happen.

The whole responsibility for defeating Voldemort was on his shoulders. He knew that because of the prophecy. Maybe other people could help train him, but they wouldn't be able to help him in the actual battle.

The prophecy echoed in his head, until he saw it written in blood-red letters across the back of his eyelids whenever he closed them.

"_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._"

That seemed clear enough to Harry. Death was coming for one or the other of them. He would have to face it.

But he had no idea how to face it until July thirty-first came, and with it his birthday.

And, with that, a book from Hermione.

* * *

Harry flipped listlessly through his gifts: yet another rock cake from Hagrid, a Quidditch poster from Ron, a can of broom polish from Ginny. Hermione's was a book, of course. He knew that even before he looked at the package or hefted it.

But he paused when he saw the title. _The Dark Ways of the Mind: Occlumency for the Average Practitioner._

That fiery conviction that burned inside him now told him this was _it_, that he'd find the answer, whatever it was that he needed, inside this book.

Harry ripped Hermione's letter open and read it quickly.

_Dear Harry:_

_Happy birthday! I'm sorry that I can't write much, but, well, I'm sure you understand. I can't wait until I see you at school in September!_

_I got you this book because I don't know if Professor Snape will ever let you practice with him again. Oh, Harry, I wish you'd gone to him and asked—_

Harry skipped the rest of that paragraph, knowing it would only consist of scoldings. The fact was, the dreams about Voldemort had stopped soon after he'd come home for the summer. Voldemort seemed to have decided that, if he could learn about Harry from the connection, Harry could also learn about his plans, and so it was too dangerous to leave open.

_So I thought this might help. I know that Professor Snape's teaching method leaves—something to be desired, sometimes, so maybe you can learn on your own._

_Did you get your O.W.L. results yet?_

_Love,_

_Hermione._

Harry turned to the book, flipping feverishly to the table of contents in the front. Chapter titles leaped to his eye, glowing as brightly as the letters of the prophecy seemed to when he went to sleep at night.

_Clearing The Mind…Opening the Hidden Doors…Envisioning the Paths of Truth…_

And then, there it was, as if whoever had laid out the book had known he would look at the end, and had chosen just the chapter title that would attract his attention.

_Occlumency as a Weapon of Offense._

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. He still had a month of summer left, and no other chance of training until he returned to Hogwarts. His hands trembled a bit, but, when he opened his eyes, they were calm.

He wouldn't waste that month.

He lay back and began to read.

* * *

He had a new focus, now, and so the days flew past more quickly. Harry was calmer than he could ever remember being, and also more focused. Yes, he was studying, which had never interested him that much before, but this studying was a matter of life and death. It _mattered_, just like Defense Against the Dark Arts did.

His life was so simple now, so deep, so clear, with the ideas he'd developed lighting up the center of it like fire burning under the sea. Everything that could help him defeat Voldemort was important. Everything that couldn't help him with that was unimportant.

He read, and he practiced, and he ate, sometimes, when he remembered to. Aunt Petunia didn't insist on it, because that would have meant speaking to him. Harry didn't mind. He had the voice of the book in his head now, speaking to him in words that made a lot more sense than anything Snape might have used to instruct him.

He knew he wasn't ready to practice what lay in that last chapter yet, and wouldn't be for a long time. But he'd _read_ that chapter already, to decide what would be the most effective technique to use in the defeat of Voldemort, and what he should be working towards.

And he'd seen the right words immediately. A deep peace had washed over him as he studied the page.

_One of the most advanced forms of Occlumency is that termed The Beholder Beholds Himself, called in most texts Beholding. This lures an enemy who is a Legilimens into one's mind, and traps him within thoughts like a hall of mirrors. No matter where he looks, he beholds himself, and he cannot find the passage out of the mind of the skilled Occlumens. Masters of the art have, at times, used this skill to destroy their enemies silently and with no trace left, containing all spark of consciousness in their own minds, while the enemy's body still lives and breathes, but is less than a fungus._

_It is not necessary to mention that The Beholder Beholds Himself is highly illegal, being essentially assassination, and may only be done with special dispensation from the Ministry._

_One caution is also necessary for the skilled Occlumens: A Legilimens who has learned the art of dominating a victim completely may resist Beholding by the Legilimency tactic of Reversing the Vision—spreading the idea of himself out to every corner of the mind he occupies, so that, in the end, it _becomes _his mind. He takes the Occlumens's body, in this fashion, and lives on in him._

Harry nodded. The air seemed still around him, the world very bright.

He knew that applied to him. Voldemort could possess Harry; he'd shown that at the Department of Mysteries. That meant Harry couldn't count on just trapping Voldemort in his mind and holding him there. Voldemort would just Reverse the Vision and take him over.

The answer was clear, of course, and Harry thought he might have known what it was even without the prophecy.

Harry would have to trap Voldemort in his mind, and then kill himself, kill his own body, before Voldemort could break free.

It would work. It had to work. Harry felt content as he contemplated it, as he saw just how _right_ everything was, and what his thoughts had been leading him to all summer: the moment when he would have the strength and resolve to face up to what needed to be done, the courage to commit suicide.

It was right, wasn't it? "_And either must die at the hand of the other._"

Voldemort would die at Harry's hand. But Harry would be killing himself _because_ of Voldemort.

And then everything would be all right. Voldemort would be dead. Harry's friends wouldn't be in any more danger from being dragged into ridiculous scrapes like the battle at the Department of Mysteries. Harry wouldn't be around any more to cause trouble for people like Dumbledore, either.

And he'd pay what he owed Sirius. He'd killed him. But if he gave his own life to make up for that, that was the biggest price he could pay, wasn't it?

Of course it was.

And maybe—maybe Harry would see him again, once he was dead. Maybe he'd even see his parents.

Harry closed his eyes against tears. He had no _time_ for tears. He hadn't cried since the second day back from Hogwarts. They couldn't help him defeat Voldemort, so they weren't important.

The owl that came fluttering up insistently to his window in the next moment wasn't important, either, though Harry let it in and gave it a few treats from Hedwig's dish. Harry took a cursory glance at the letter it carried. Just his O.W.L. results. As expected, he hadn't scored high enough to make it into N.E.W. T. Potions. Harry was doubly relieved. The last thing he needed this year was Snape looking over his shoulder. Harry thought he was already a good enough Occlumens to shield his thoughts from Snape, a little, but Potions would have been torture when he needed to concentrate on other things.

_Besides, what's the good of O.W.L scores? It's not as though I'll be living to use them._

Harry smiled a little and stroked Hedwig's feathers. She'd hooted jealously when the other owl flew in, but now she calmed down and preened, nipping gently at his fingers.

"I'm finally doing the right thing, Hedwig," Harry whispered to her. He was startled to hear how hoarse his voice sounded, but then, he'd barely spoken that summer except to whisper the prophecy or the words of the book aloud. "Training to defeat Voldemort, which _has_ to happen, and doing what I was born to do."

Hedwig hooted at him again and took a piece of his hair in her beak, nibbling it. Harry stroked her neck, and decided he'd have to make a will of some kind soon, so that he could decide who should take care of Hedwig and his few other possessions when he was gone.

He knew such thoughts would have depressed him a few months ago. But then, he didn't know what he knew now.

It was good that he'd been left alone all summer, he thought, as he stooped and took the quill and parchments from under his bed where he kept them to write his short, mechanical letters to the Order. It had definitely cleared his head.


	2. In a Wartime World

Thank you for the reviews!

This chapter actually has all three of the story's viewpoint characters, which is unusual. Most chapters will be told through the eyes of just one or two.

_Chapter 2: In a Wartime World_

Unaccountable.

That, Rufus Scrimgeour reflected as he sat back and rotated his neck until the joints popped, was a good word for Albus Dumbledore. One would have thought the Headmaster of Hogwarts would have contacted him as soon as he heard about Cornelius, ah, "leaving office," and expressed his solidarity with the new Minister. Rufus didn't intend to make the mistakes Cornelius had. He knew full well that You-Know-Who was back. He knew Death Eaters had killed Amelia Bones and nearly half-a-dozen other people highly-placed in the Ministry, not all of them disclosed as Death Eater attacks to the _Daily Prophet_. He was fully prepared to treat Dumbledore with the respect that such an old war hero and powerful wizard merited.

And yet Dumbledore returned his owls unopened, or, with every other bird, sent back a cryptic explanation of why he couldn't possibly visit the Ministry yet.

Except the last letter, of course. Rufus cast the parchment on his desk a scowl that his mother had once warned him would set things on fire if he kept it. He'd been extremely disappointed when the cat, his ugly dress robes, and his mother's hairstyle all failed to suddenly sprout flames.

He could wish for the ability now. It wasn't as though he needed to keep the letter. He knew exactly what it said, from repeated readings.

_August 31st, 1996_

_Dear Minister Scrimgeour:_

_A grand solution has just occurred to me, one that would solve both your problem of insisting that we meet and mine of being increasingly (extraordinarily, unaccountably) busy. Why don't you come to Hogwarts? I'm certain I can spare you an hour or two in the next few days. Your visit could be as quiet as possible, and you could just nip in and out again with all your questions answered._

_Yours in socks,_

_Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts._

Rufus snorted and shook his head. Oh, _yes_, of _course_ he could simply "nip in and out." The visit would be all over the _Daily Prophet_ in hours. He might have agreed to a private meeting with Dumbledore on neutral ground, but not in the place of his own power. Cornelius had visited the school all the time, gone after the old dragon in his den, and look what had happened to him—outplayed, outthought. Rufus was not such a fool.

But it was, of course, necessary, even inevitable, that such a figure of power, towards whom so many people still looked for reassurance, should talk to him, and make plans with him for the defeat of the Dark. Rufus hunted Dark wizards, stopped them, and hauled them to Azkaban. It was what he _did._ Even though he had so many more duties now, that wasn't about to _stop_ just because he was Minister.

He tapped his bad leg, and then grimaced. He always tended to forget his limp when he was deep in thought.

Yes, they needed to fight the Dark. And, ultimately, he would need Dumbledore's power and name behind him.

But there was someone else who had as much reason to hate You-Know-Who as anyone. And he had power and a name of his own, even a recorded defeat of a Dark Lord rather like Dumbledore's defeat of Grindelwald.

Perhaps it was time to approach Harry Potter, who was probably not so unaccountable.

* * *

Harry gave Ron and Hermione a quiet smile as he endured their hugs, hoping they didn't notice how he stiffened in their hold—luckily, Hedwig's cage in one hand and the fact that they were both hugging him at once meant he didn't have to return it—or how he flinched from their voices. He'd asked Uncle Vernon to bring him to King's Cross Station a few hours early, so that he'd have time to get used to shouting and people addressing him again. He'd done quite well, he thought. This was the kind of thing he had to plan for, because if he didn't, then Ron and Hermione would insist on finding out what was "wrong" with him. And they wouldn't accept that he _had_ to commit suicide. They would argue with him about it.

Harry didn't want to argue with them about it. He wanted them to enjoy these last few months. They would have happy memories of him. He was determined on it.

He felt the same clinging weight of responsibility around his shoulders that he'd felt when Dumbledore first explained the prophecy to him, but how he carried it was different now. It was probably because all the responsibilities were going to end soon. He would hit a certain point, and defeat Voldemort, and then—

Then he wouldn't have to worry anymore.

Meanwhile, he had thought up the perfect lie to distract Ron and Hermione into leaving him alone so that he could pursue his Occlumency studies and the best way to ensure he died before Voldemort could take over his body. And the best part was that most of it was truth.

"So, how was your summer, mate?" Ron asked, the moment Harry had settled Hedwig's cage on the floor beside him and taken his seat.

"Serious," Harry said quietly, and the smile faded from Ron's face. Hermione leaned forward anxiously. Harry gave her a nod, so she would know he was all right. "I decided that I had to train much harder than I've been training to defeat Voldemort. Most of what we learn at school isn't going to help." He looked at Hermione as she opened her mouth, and she shut it with a resigned expression. "It really isn't, Hermione. I need to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts. I need to _concentrate_ on that. So I've been training. And I'll be training more this term."

He turned to Ron. He needed to drop Quidditch, and he needed to make sure Ron would be so busy that he wouldn't have time to notice any strange changes in Harry's behavior. This ought to take care of both of those.

"I won't be playing on the team this year," he said.

Ron's mouth fell open, and, the next moment, his face started flushing.

"That means you're Captain," Harry continued. "I know you'll lead Gryffindor to victory." He grinned and leaned across the space between their seats to punch Ron on the shoulder. "Isn't Weasley our King?"

Ron's ears turned even redder, but, this time, Harry knew it was for a different reason. "We need you, Harry," he muttered.

"You'll get other Seekers," Harry said cheerfully. _Let Ron think about Quidditch. Let him concentrate on that. People want to think about things that are important to them. The more often they do that, the less likely they are to notice me. _It was such a simple tactic that Harry was amazed he'd never thought of it before. Of course, most of the time the attention focused on him was from people so numerous that he couldn't figure out what mattered to them all individually. "And you being Captain _will_ make a difference, Ron. Just think about how you play chess. Couldn't you apply that to how you play Quidditch?"

Ron opened his mouth, probably to tell him chess and Quidditch were two entirely different things, and then blinked. "I am good at strategy," he muttered.

Harry smiled at him, and then turned to Hermione. She would be a bit more difficult. Namely, he'd have to lie more.

"Harry," she said. "Are you sure that you'll still have time for schoolwork?"

Harry nodded. "I'll still be studying, I promise." As he'd expected, her face lit up at the mention of him studying. "And just think. By the time I defeat Voldemort, I'll be able to sit the N.E.W.T. exams with perfect confidence, because defeating him will be the hardest thing I ever do." _Yes, it will._

Hermione clasped her hands, though her gaze still assessed him in ways that Ron's eyes, turned happily inward to fantasies of Quidditch, never would. "You really will try hard?"

"Of course I will," said Harry firmly. And he meant it. The major lie here was letting her think that he intended to live beyond the end of this year.

Or even beyond the end of a few months, really. If he had his way, Harry was going to master the Occlumency he needed and strike at Voldemort during Christmas holidays. That would mean fewer people around in Hogwarts as innocent victims just in case the worst happened and Voldemort took control of his body. But Harry really didn't think it would. He wouldn't try to trap Voldemort until he was sure he could do it.

Even better, it meant fewer people near who might try to stop him.

"I'm glad." Hermione touched his arm. "And you'll—you'll study in the Library, and not always alone?"

"I'll study with you, sometimes," Harry promised. He'd worked out a few glamour charms that would make some of his books look like more harmless ones, and he shouldn't need to hide the Occlumency book Hermione had given him from her.

Hermione looked as if he'd given her a perfect Christmas gift. Then she started describing her summer holidays to him, in which she and her parents had apparently visited Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and nearly everywhere else in Europe. By the number of times she paused, Harry knew she wasn't telling him the whole story. She and Ron had been so silent this summer that they must have been ordered to keep _something_ quiet.

Oh, well. It wasn't as though he didn't have his secrets, too.

After about an hour, he excused himself from the compartment. He was almost accustomed to their voices again, but not quite. He needed some time alone, away from eyes and words specifically focused on him.

He wandered the aisle between the compartments, past shut doors, without anyone appearing to notice him. Then a hand touched his arm, and Harry found himself raising his Occlumency walls even before he reached for his wand. He was pleased that his reactions had become that instinctive; it promised good things when he got to Hogwarts and confronted Snape, who would probably be the hardest to fool with his new skills.

A moment later, he relaxed. "Hi, Luna," he said. "How was your summer?"

"Calm," she told him. "We didn't find any Crumple-horned Snorkacks, though we tried." She sighed, and then her face brightened. "We did find a natural Nargle habitat." She dug in her robes for a moment, then brought out what looked like a completely ordinary pine needle to Harry.

He picked it up and turned it around anyway, once Luna nodded her permission. Then he handed it back to her. "I can't see them," he said.

"Not many people can," said Luna, and leaned nearer as if she were about to confess a great secret, her cork necklace bobbing. "Most people can't see things that _are_ there. Have you ever noticed that, Harry?"

"I have," Harry said. Maybe it was his summer talking, but Luna seemed saner than she had last year. She could see thestrals, too, he remembered. She was currently examining him with wide, dreamy eyes. He wondered if she could see the cloud of death hanging around him.

If she saw it, she didn't say anything. She just patted his arm, and said, "I have to visit my trunk. My possessions might go away earlier than usual, and there's an edition of the _Quibbler _I haven't read yet." She turned and wandered away.

Harry stared after Luna for a moment, then shook his head. She might be the only person it was safe to confide in, but he couldn't count on it. Even if she thought the idea that he had to die to keep Voldemort at bay was completely normal, she could mention it in the hearing of someone who wouldn't.

Harry closed his eyes and leaned against the wall for a moment. He had to keep the fact of his death in front of him at all times, so he didn't start believing he'd survive. Maybe the hardest part of this summer was strangling the natural tendency to think of his life as more than a few months long.

"Move, Potter."

Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy stood next to him in the aisle, with plenty of room to pass. Harry noticed the summer had only sharpened his features and put more hatred in his eyes.

Harry didn't care. He would pay attention to Malfoy when he saw evidence that the other boy was helping Voldemort to win. Until then, Malfoy was uninteresting.

"Of course, Malfoy," he said, and turned and walked away. He could feel Malfoy gaping at his back. Harry shrugged. He'd changed his mind, that was all.

For a moment, the grief for Sirius throbbed. This was the longest Harry had gone without thinking about his godfather since the summer started, and he scolded himself for that. He had to remember that, too, that it was his fault Sirius was dead, or he might lose the courage he'd so carefully planted in himself.

He concentrated on the grief again, and kept walking.

* * *

Severus locked his eyes on Harry Potter the moment the boy came into the Great Hall and sat down at the Gryffindor table, and didn't move them throughout the Sorting. The only other people he might have had an interest in looking at were Albus and Draco Malfoy, and Albus was in one of his most inscrutable moods, while Severus had lately heard more about Draco than he cared to know.

His mother had tried to make a bargain with the Dark Lord, it appeared, which would have used Severus himself as a pawn. Since Severus had only heard about it afterwards, he knew none of _those_ details. She'd had the bad luck to choose Bellatrix as a confidant, though, and Bellatrix had chosen her Lord over her sister. The Dark Lord had been merciful enough to leave Narcissa alive.

As for Draco, he'd placed the boy under Severus's personal "protection." Severus was to keep him in line, train him when necessary, and shape his mind into that of a good little Death Eater. So Draco thought. Severus knew the truth, and it would put him into yet another impossible position, trying to believably mold Draco for the Dark and save his soul at the same time.

He was used to impossible positions. His best revenge was putting others into them.

Draco was sulky enough not to pay attention to anything beyond himself yet. Severus thought it was probably impossible to trap Albus like that, if only because he would refuse to _admit _that he was trapped. That left Potter.

Severus knew the boy hadn't received a mark high enough to enter the sixth-year Potions class. And, thanks to an ill-advised bragging session Minerva had held, he also knew the boy wanted to be an Auror. Aurors needed the higher Potions classes, needed to achieve a respectable N.E.W.T. mark in them, and needed to demonstrate basic skill in the art.

Potter would come to him and beg to be let into the class. And Severus would pretend to think about it, _if_—

The "if" sounded in delicious tones in his mind.

The brat deserved it, deserved everything Severus could fling at him. The audacity of what he'd done last year, peering into his Pensieve, still took Severus's breath when he thought about it. Add to that the continuing resemblance to James Potter, the stubborn refusal to attend even to those lessons which might save his bloody life, and the lack of any discernible talent or intelligence, and it was only a miracle that some other professor had not yet seized the opportunity to savage the boy.

Of course, his fellow professors were all either too thick-headed to see a chance like this, or too timid to take it if so.

_Teaching at Hogwarts has its compensations, however wearisome I find it._

He did not bother listening to Albus's speech, or paying attention to the food in front of him or to Moody, hired as this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, whose magical eye had not moved from him since the man sat down. Those eyes could not spy the thoughts under the hair. Only if Moody were a Legilimens would Severus worry.

He moved fluidly enough when the feast finished, and the Slytherin prefects were guiding the new first-years to their common room. Was it not only natural for him to follow, and show his care for his students as Head of House? Surely it was but coincidence that his steps carried him in the same direction as Potter and his little Gryffindor friends.

"Potter," he said coldly. "A moment."

Potter stiffened as if he'd hit him with a board. And then he turned around, and his eyes snapped green fire, and Severus had the dubious pleasure of beholding James Potter in the flesh, in the life.

"What's the matter?" Potter taunted him. "Come to beg money to pay back one of the numerous debts you owe to decent people, _Snivellus?_"

A flash of red rage obscured Severus's vision for a moment. It was the name that did it, of course, but Potter had also subtly referred to his past as a Death Eater and his family's lack of money, though Severus had no idea how he would have learned _that_. Perhaps Dumbledore, in one of his misguided fits to make the boy sympathize with Severus, had told him the story.

Even Potter's Gryffindor friends were gaping at him now, though, and more than one had gasped. He was justified in taking points, more than he had ever been.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor House, for talking back to a professor," he said, calmly enough, once the urge to snarl like an enraged beast had passed. "And detention with Argus Filch for a month for your lack of respect."

And Potter laughed.

He sounded _exactly_ like his father.

Severus clamped his teeth on the growl that wanted to emerge. It was one thing to punish disrespect, and another to lose control and curse the brat in front of half the school. He had already inflicted all the pain he legitimately could. But he would make it up to Potter later, oh, yes, he would.

He turned his back and glided away, heading for the dungeons. Potter would still come to him and beg to enter the Potions classes, he was certain. Or perhaps he would simply appear that first day and demand he be let in, confident in his celebrity as always.

Severus must think of something…_suitable_…to greet him when that happened.

* * *

"Oh, Harry, how _could_ you?" That was Hermione, giving a distressed wail.

Harry felt his heart beating madly in his chest as he watched Snape leave. _I did it! I did it! It worked! He didn't even try to read my mind!_

Harry's idea to fool Snape, until he got good enough at Occlumency to hold his thoughts always private, was to act the way he'd seen his father act in the Pensieve last year. No, it didn't make him feel good, or as if James were in the right, but it _worked_, and that was the important thing. Act just the way Snape had always thought he should act, as if he were arrogant and carried away with his own importance, add in hints at his Death Eater past and the lack of money Harry had surmised from his gray pants, and Snape was unlikely to look for Occlumency. Why should he? He was convinced Harry was incapable of learning it.

It wouldn't work forever. But Harry didn't have forever. He had a few months, at best, maybe only a few weeks or days until he reached the point in his training where he didn't need to flinch from Snape's eyes.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione repeated.

Ron was laughing, and most of the other Gryffindors looked torn between amusement and horror. The first-years stared with wide eyes. Harry managed a smile for them as he turned away.

"Why'd you do that, mate?" Ron asked, obviously trying to swallow his chuckles in the face of Hermione's glare, and not succeeding.

"I really, really hate him," Harry said, in a voice so quiet it could sound like a sullen mutter. He didn't, but the lie could help him defeat Voldemort, and so it met his standards of what was important these days.

_I don't have much longer. And the first time Snape accosts me after I've mastered Occlumency, I'll break down in front of him. That should convince him my defiance was temporary._

"Detention with Filch for a month," Seamus was saying, in the tone of one who couldn't decide if the crime was worth the punishment.

"Better than with Snape," Harry said—and it was, which was one reason he had tried to make the man that angry, so he wouldn't insist on overseeing the detentions himself—and that set Ron laughing again, while Hermione tried to remonstrate with him.

Harry kept up his smile. It was easy enough, since that was the way he really felt.

_Not much longer. _


	3. A Surprise for Severus

Thanks again for the reviews!

In which Harry learns that, sometimes, open defiance is not all that smart.

_Chapter 3—A Surprise for Severus_

It didn't take long for Harry to learn that his strategy for handling Snape hadn't worked quite as well as he'd hoped.

The detentions with Filch were no problem. Harry had practice in moving his hands while he kept his mind occupied, thanks to chores at the Dursleys', and now that he actually _did_ have something to occupy his thoughts, rather than the nonsense that usually ran through his head, he could practice Occlumency and finish the detentions at the same time. Filch usually gave him a suspicious look when Harry showed him the neatly scrubbed section of floor or the wall shining without the aid of magic. But Harry just showed him a calm, blank face—Filch wasn't important to the defeat of Voldemort in any way—and the man would have to grumble and let him go.

Dumbledore had called Harry to his office soon after the term began, but Harry had expected that, too, and was prepared for it. He met Dumbledore's eyes without fear, and layered memories close to the surface of grief for Sirius, the end of last term, and the times when he had believed he would finally have a home away from the Dursleys. They were all genuine emotions. And Dumbledore, being Dumbledore, did not probe any further; Snape would have. He just nodded, and offered Harry a sweet now and then, and shared memories of Sirius in a rambling way.

Harry could no longer listen to those memories as eagerly as he would have before. He wondered how many of them had occurred just before or after Sirius hurt Snape or someone else, and he had to bow his head and fake a loud sob to get Dumbledore to let him go.

Ron had flung himself into Quidditch with a passion that made Harry confident of Gryffindor's success on the Pitch this year. Hermione almost had new smile lines in her face from the amount of time she and Harry sat quietly in the library together, reading, and the way that Harry even encouraged other people to study for the N.E.W.T.'s. McGonagall had taken Harry's announcement that he no longer wanted to be Seeker well enough, though with more than a hint of sorrow in her eyes.

Only Snape continued to be a problem. Harry didn't understand why. He was nasty, and insulting, and James Potter's son. Couldn't Snape concentrate on something _else_? He could have no pleasure in thinking of Harry.

* * *

It was remarkable, really, how rapidly his hatred for Potter had climbed.

There had been no more open insults. There had been _plenty_ of whispers when he took points from Gryffindor or simply passed Potter in the halls—which happened often when Potter went halfway to the N.E.W.T. Potions class with the Granger girl—and muffled laughter that made Severus swing around more than once, certain James Potter's ghost and not his flesh and blood were standing behind him.

More provokingly still, Potter refused to come to Severus in any capacity. He certainly did not beg to be let into the sixth-year Potions class. He apparently ceased to trouble the other teachers at all; indeed, Moody had joined Minerva in bragging about him. He acted as though the goal of his life was to irritate Severus, and he was succeeding with both skill and aplomb.

The hatred between them had been mutual, Severus was certain. Potter could not have rejected that as if it never existed. He should have paid more attention to his Potions teacher than this.

If that were not enough, his duties as Dumbledore's spy and Draco's teacher had both increased. Albus was judicious enough not to ask him to take unnecessary risks, and to listen to his reports in silence. They both knew that it was likely Severus would have to stop spying sometime this year, as the Dark Lord's guesses about who in his ranks might be a traitor moved closer and closer to the mark. Severus could not say this work was relaxing, but at least he could come back and deliver what he had to say to an understanding brain, and know it would be usefully employed.

Draco was a different matter. The boy had never learned the meaning of "silence," useful or otherwise.

"I don't see why we _can't_ use Dark Arts," he whinged, after the seventh time Severus had vetoed a training plan that included pain curses. He had made Draco think about what he wanted to study, and try to come up with his own course of magic. It at least made the Malfoy boy's face turn red more and more often. "It's not as though there are spells on the school that detect them—"

Severus gave him a look. Draco blinked and bit his lip.

"There are?" he asked.

"Of course," said Severus, raising an eyebrow afterwards that said, more eloquently than words could, what an idiot Draco was being, and checked on the potion in front of him. It had settled into a light purple color, with a scrim of green on the surface. Severus nodded. Five minutes more, and it would be ready for the addition of the frost-flowers.

"But I know people have done Dark Arts in school before, and no one picked up on it," Draco was now expostulating.

"_Really_, Mr. Malfoy." Severus leaned over the cauldron with a speed that made Draco take a step back. "And who of our Lord's servants has been flapping his tongue at you, to make you think that?"

"I mean—I didn't—" Draco stood still for a moment, sweating, then made a sweeping gesture with one hand. "Rumors, that's all. Of what the Dark Lord can do, how he could get inside Hogwarts."

Severus resisted the urge to rub his temples. Draco Malfoy had the potential to be a fine man, wiser and more cautious than his father, and acting on a political stage that did not include the supremely dangerous threat of the Dark Lord. He simply had to change almost everything about himself first.

"Rumors," he said, with a single sharp nod. "And relying on the evidence of others' words instead of your own senses has worked _so_ well for you, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco's face became pale and quiet. Severus held his gaze. He wouldn't have needed to be a Legilimens to know what Draco was thinking about, since he had been there to share it, but since he was, he could see the darting memories just under the surface of his eyes.

Narcissa Malfoy had looked red and black at the last, even her thick blonde hair soaked through with caked gore, layer after layer of it.

Draco overcame that silence a moment later, of course, drawing himself up and throwing his head back imperiously. "You dare to throw this in my face, Professor Snape?" Only someone paying strict attention would have heard the slight tremble in his voice. "I don't—"

And someone knocked on the door.

It took Severus a moment to remember that Albus had insisted on sending the Potter brat to him tonight. He had assumed that he would be done with Draco before then; he had not counted on the boy staying so long to complain and sulk. And he had rather enjoyed the notion that Albus had told Potter to beg for the Occlumency lessons to resume, since it enabled him to hold something over Potter's head.

Severus briefly considered dismissing Draco, but decided against it. It would add an extra sting to Potter's humiliation if he had to ask for more "remedial Potions" under the eye of the most skilled Potions student in the school. And Draco, believing as he did that Severus was a faithful servant of his Lord who hated Potter, would not tell others what had happened tonight, but save it as a secret to enjoy with his mentor.

"Enter," Severus called, and sat down behind his desk, watching a small, cruel smile appear on Draco's face when Potter came in. In this matter, Severus could fully approve of the boy's impetuous temper where Potter was concerned.

"Sir," Potter said, between clenched teeth, in a tone that spoke volumes about how much he hated asking this favor. He folded his arms and scowled at the floor. But nothing could lessen his swagger or his resemblance to his father, and that meant Severus's scorn could remain safely intact.

"What do you want, Potter?" Best to force the boy to enunciate the words. Severus intended to draw every bit of pleasure from this he could, since Potter had so provoked him.

Potter hissed, again between his teeth. Severus considered taking House points, but his instincts told him to wait. This would be sweeter if Potter were not interrupted.

"I've—that is, Headmaster Dumbledore says—" Potter paused, breathing hard. Severus half-frowned. If he had been listening to the sound under other circumstances, he would have said that it sounded forced, faked. But Potter would never have come here of his own free will to ask that the lessons begin again. This must be a symptom of his distress, nothing more. Severus's enjoyment grew.

"Perhaps it's lessons in elocution, Professor," Draco observed brightly, his own voice perfectly correct and loud. "He could certainly use them."

Severus worked to subdue a snarl. Draco could not have known, of course, how long it had taken Severus himself to make sure he sounded like other pure-blood children, to rid his speech of his Muggle father's influence, in both accent and vocabulary. But the testimony to his success was that Draco had never even suspected that his trusted Professor and Head of House was a half-blood.

"It's not that!" Potter burst out, swinging his head up, and making a gesture with one arm that Severus would have called theatrical and extravagant under other circumstances. But this was Potter. He lived to be extravagant, and to annoy other people in doing so. "It's—Remedial Potions, sir." His face had at least turned satisfyingly red again, and he met Severus's eyes fully for the first time. "I need Potions if I'm going to be an Auror."

Severus had his wand under the desk, pointing at Potter, and he could certainly use Legilimency without a verbal component. He passed through those green eyes into the mind behind them, undetectably, as he was used to doing, intent on finding a memory he could use to rip the brat apart.

And there was—

Nothingness. The same smooth slick of shimmering oil that Severus sensed when he looked too long into Albus's eyes. A shield of Occlumency overspread Potter's mind as if he had poured it there.

In his shock, Severus lost control of his Legilimency. Potter gave his head a faint shake, but did not seem to understand what had happened. He never had in the past, when Severus read his mind to determine if he had been lying or not.

_This is impossible._

Severus's mind was working furiously to find some explanation, and finding none. He _knew_ Potter had nothing of the talent needed to master Occlumency, not the self-control, not the intelligence, not the temperament. Even if he had chosen to work at it on his own, there was no way that he could have achieved this particular result.

Albus could have taught him, but in that case, he would not have sent the boy to ask for lessons.

That left outside interference into Potter's mind from elsewhere—an amulet that mimicked the effects of Occlumency, perhaps, or influence from the Dark Lord. Severus contrived not to hiss between his teeth, but it took an enormous effort. Could the boy never have an end of getting in trouble?

"You assume that I must grant special privileges for you, Potter," he said, aware that he had been too long silent, and Draco was looking at him curiously. He rose to his full height, to have the effect of intimidation and give himself a moment more to regain his composure. "But, though it may surprise you to learn this, _not_ every Professor in this school has as high an opinion of you as you have of yourself."

Potter met his eyes directly again, and in his gaze glittered all that defiance that made Severus's wand hand twitch. "Yes, that's right," he said. "Some of them actually give me _credit_ for my talents."

"You have none in Potions," Snape replied swiftly, mentally thanking Potter for such a perfect opening. "Therefore, I have no reason to open my class to you. You probably merited your E by bribery of the exam proctor." And he was convinced that had happened along the way, even if it was only the proctor deciding that Harry _Potter_ deserved an Exceeds Expectations on his Potions O.W.L. Severus knew the boy could not have earned an E. He'd taught him for five years, hadn't he? "I accept only students who earn an O into any lessons I teach the sixth-years, and that includes remedial ones. Now that I am finally free of your presence, why should I wish to reinstate it?"

Draco snickered, but Severus was only partly telling the truth. He _did_ wish to have Potter near, if only to figure out how to make panic and pain appear in those angry eyes, and discover where that Occlumency had come from.

"In the interests of doing something honorable for once in your life?" Potter drawled, and met Severus's eyes once more.

Truly, the only talent Potter had acquired over the summer was the talent of enraging him.

Severus did not speak as he wished, because he knew it would come out strangled, and that was not the image he desired to project. He said only, "You know little of honor. Your behavior proves that. Thirty points from Gryffindor House for disrespect of a teacher, and detention—"

"With Filch, I suppose," Potter put in, looking bored.

It was the bored expression that did it, Severus was later sure. He _had_ to break the boy. He had never hated anyone half so much, save Sirius Black, and unfortunately he could not insult the mutt as he wished in front of Draco. "No, Mr. Potter," he said. "With me. Every evening at seven-o'clock for a week, beginning Monday. This will include Saturday and Sunday. And ten more points from Gryffindor for interrupting me."

Potter froze for a moment, eyes wide, but then shook himself as if he were a horse shaking off flies, gave him one more murderous glance, and departed.

Severus turned to Draco, who was laughing. Draco stopped his chuckles when he caught sight of his expression, which was a warning to Severus to calm as much as he could.

"Why don't you deliver him to our Lord right now?" Draco asked softly.

Severus gave him a withering glance, and luckily Draco looked down. He had, fortunately, made so many mistakes during the summer that when Severus implied he did not know or understand something obvious, Draco would automatically believe it was so. "Many reasons, Draco," Severus said, "and some of them you may even grasp before the end of the year."

Draco gave a subdued little nod. "May I go now, sir?"

"Go," Severus said, glancing once at the ruined potion. He would have to begin brewing from the ground up, and that was a further annoyance. His head began to throb. "And, next time, come back with a list you can _use_."

Draco fled. Severus sat back and spent a few moments breathing with his eyes shut.

Something niggled and squirmed in the back of his mind. He remembered Potter's gestures, and reexamined them in his mind's eye.

The odd behaviors that seemed false, so unlike the open arrogance he remembered of the boy…

_If the Dark Lord has possessed him, I will take great pleasure in shredding his mind to pieces to get rid of the infection._

* * *

Harry shook his head as he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower. What was _wrong_ with Snape? Harry had achieved two of the things he'd planned for this evening—annoyed Snape so drastically that there was no chance of the Occlumency lessons resuming, and tested his own ability to defend his thoughts—but, after that, Snape was supposed to look away and give up. Harry was an irritant. Why would he want to spend more time with someone who irritated him so much? Of all the people in Hogwarts, Harry had believed Snape would be the easiest to focus on his own pursuits and away from Harry's life, since he was so self-centered anyway.

But he seemed more determined to spy out the causes of Harry's Occlumency.

Harry grimaced. He resented taking the time away from study, but he would have to make sure he had an "explanation" by the time he began detention with Snape on Monday. He wished he could be sure that Snape would discover the truth, laugh, and help Harry hasten his death, but it would be just like the man to stand in the way for spite, because killing himself was something Harry wanted to do.

_Don't worry, Sirius, _Harry promised. _I'll find some way to fool him. This is just a bump on the road to making up for what I did. Snape is only important because he might stop me. But he won't. I've decided he won't._

Harry cast the _Tempus_ charm, and then turned towards the library. He still had enough time before bed to research the glamour charms he might need, as well as to practice the Siren Song, the Occlumency technique he would need to catch Voldemort's attention. He reached into his robe and touched the shrunken book that rode everywhere with him.

_It'll be all right. I'll make it be all right. _

That bright calm he'd earned in the summer returned again. He could do anything that mattered to the defeat of Voldemort, and this did.


	4. Heart of Darkness

Wow, thank you so much for the positive response! Since I'm not having Severus act as fluffy as he usually does in stories like this, I wondered if that would be a problem, but I can't really see him getting all concerned and worried right away even if he does think there's something wrong with Harry.

_Chapter 4—Heart of Darkness_

Harry sat upright and stared more intently at the book in his hands. This was what he'd been looking for. At first he'd tried to search out glamour charms that would imitate the effects of Occlumency, but he'd realized, finally, how futile that was. If there were glamour charms that would imitate Occlumency, Snape could have just taught him those, instead of the Occlumency itself. So he'd tried to track down more general glamour charms, and been frustrated with how few of them could do what he wanted.

Until now.

_Oddivarius's Charm._

_This spell is named after the wizard Otto Oddivarius, who had an interest in impressing Muggles with his own power. While many charms exist to make wizarding places seem uninteresting and turn Muggles away from us, Oddivarius wanted to give them a glimpse of what was true without exposing everything. After long years of adapting existing spells to unsatisfactory results, he succeeded in inventing this charm, which gives off a general sense of magic, without limiting that magic to the effect of one incantation or intention. The results of Oddivarius's Charm can feel equally like the aftereffects of a strong Transfiguration or a spell employed in the capture of an enemy. It is the aura of power produced, not the visible magic, which Oddivarius desired._

_To cast Oddivarius's Charm, one must flick one's wrist in the motion that also casts a Shield Charm, then cross the wand three times in front of the chest, and speak the incantation: _Cette veneficium!

Harry licked his lips twice. If he cast the spell on something ordinary that he then took into Monday night's detention with him, then it might seem as if his Occlumency came from that instead of his own training.

_But what's going to happen when Snape demands that you take the charm off?_

He didn't know about that, and it made him hesitate for a while. He resented spending this much time on it, since Snape mattered so little to his defeat of Voldemort, but he reasoned that he had to be _absolutely_ sure Snape would leave him alone. If he could achieve a perfect result at first, then Harry didn't mind working harder and for longer right now.

In the end, he decided that he would have no choice but to let Snape see his thoughts for a bit, to make Snape believe his Occlumency would end when he removed the charm. But he could choose what memories Snape saw, the way he had with Dumbledore. The problem was to keep him from digging further.

And there was only one set of memories that might make him do that.

_I'm sorry, Sirius._

* * *

His Dark Mark began to burn in the middle of his third-year Potions class, combined Slytherins and Gryffindors. Severus bit his tongue to keep from snarling and raised his Occlumency shields higher, to dim the pain through the Mark. He couldn't block the sensation completely—and he didn't want to, since the Dark Lord had returned, in case he missed a summons—but since the pain was so much mental, he had some control of it.

And, since the third-years were brewing a volatile potion, it was easy enough to flick his wand, unnoticed, at a cauldron, ruin the mixture in such a way that an enormous cloud of choking fumes would boil up, and send the students outside with a shout to the effect that this class and the next one would have to be canceled, until he could clean up the dungeons. He cast a locking charm at the door and went swiftly to fetch his Death Eater robes and mask, cheering himself up with the thought of detention for an insolent Gryffindor third-year he particularly disliked. It had been his cauldron Severus had destroyed.

He dressed, made his way swiftly under a Disillusionment Charm beyond the spells that prevented him from Apparating, and then leaped to his Lord's side.

As expected, he arrived in a buried section of the Riddle mansion, alive with so many spells against detection that Severus felt his teeth itch. An army of Aurors could have walked above this wing and never sensed it. Dim lamps burned on the black walls, turning the shadows red. Severus wondered, as usual, if that was for effect, or some magical purpose. Every time he came, the shadows had changed, and so every time, the answers might be different.

_So starved of intellectual company am I,_ he thought, as he dropped into a kneeling position, _that the danger matters little to me any more. It would almost be a blessing to die if I knew that I was never to speak with an educated person again._

"Rise, Severus."

The soft, hissing voice was normal by now. Give it enough time, Severus thought as he stood, and anything would become normal. He made his way slowly towards the sunken tub out of which the Dark Lord was rising, helped by two masked figures Severus did not know. He thought they might be Inferi, from the faint, sweet, rotting smell that surrounded them.

The Dark Lord's body ran with soft, black liquid, which luckily melted out of sight as he was wrapped in thick ceremonial robes. Severus looked at the sunken tub, and did not let himself flinch. The pool was filled with blood, the most tangible remains of the victims the Dark Lord had started slaughtering of late. It was supposed by some ancient authors to be a magical remedy against the loss of youth, and the Dark Lord, when not vain, was desirous of keeping his life for as long as possible. Severus had seen worse things happen during the years he served.

"I wish," said the Dark Lord, when he sat once more on the carved black throne formed of twining basalt snakes, "for a report on young Draco Malfoy's progress." His hand absently caressed the head of Nagini, who curled at his side in a motion disturbingly reminiscent of a human woman's.

Severus poured Occlumency over his thoughts before he began to speak. Just in time, because the next moment he felt the darting, flickering probes of the Dark Lord's Legilimency, attempting slyly to steal memories without letting his servant know he was doing it.

He had to let _some_ memories through, of course, because absolute blankness would have made the Dark Lord more suspicious than any innocent thought Severus might let cross his mind. He had survived so far because he was a stronger Occlumens than the Dark Lord was a Legilimens. It would be a shame to waste all that effort for nothing.

Their conversations always had this second dimension, an unseen struggle that Severus did his best to keep the Dark Lord from seeing as a struggle, since defiance was as out of the question as nothingness. As he spoke with light scorn about Draco's refusal to truly make an effort in areas other than Potions, and with reluctant admiration of his enthusiasm for the Dark Arts, he let himself think of Draco, and of Dumbledore in his most inscrutable moods, and of the other students he'd taught in the past who had come near to Draco's level of skill. They were the kinds of things that the Dark Lord might see in the mind of anyone with naturally strong walls. In this way, Severus tried to give himself some breathing room.

But, of course, there was the fact that any betrayal would be instant, and have instant consequences, which made it hard to anticipate, and harder still to brace himself for.

In the end, the Dark Lord sat silent on his throne and thought. Severus knelt there, eyes uplifted as always, and did the opposite of thinking, letting some thoughts drift to the surface, freezing others.

"Tell young Draco Malfoy," the Dark Lord said at last, "that my confidence in him depends on his mastering spells that will serve our war effort. If he continues to resist, he should remember the past, and how easily the past can become the future."

Severus inclined his head. Draco would understand the message easily enough. Narcissa, whatever her plan had been, had "resisted" the Dark Lord, and her punishment would affect the rest of her life.

"Is there anything else that you wish me to do, my Lord?" he asked, not yet daring to rise.

"I wish to have the counter to Veritaserum that you have been developing in less than two months, Severus."

The Dark Lord need utter no threat other than that. Severus had been claiming that he could brew a potion that would make the drinker immune to the effects of Veritaserum for nearly a year now. The Dark Lord had at last given him a deadline. Another task to add to the ever-growing pile, but at least this was one he _had_ anticipated, and would simply increase his work on. There could be no question of lying or falsifying here, not when he had such a definite command. It would have to work, and then he would have to do something else to ensure that the potion could not be truly used against Aurors and others of Albus's party—or have another black mark against him in the eyes of the Light.

It had not escaped Severus's notice of ironies that, if the Dark Lord fell tomorrow, he was still more likely to end in Azkaban than not.

"Other than that, Severus," and the Dark Lord waved a hand.

Severus was glad enough to leave. By the sound of the screams, they were bringing in another young Muggle woman. Whatever old books the Dark Lord had been reading said bathing in the blood of virgins was the only sure means to restore youth. She would be carefully and expertly exsanguinated.

Severus had little taste for such things.

* * *

Draco had not taken the message well, nearly breaking down, and Veritaserum was a notoriously difficult potion to brew at all, never mind counter. Thus Severus was in a foul mood by the time seven-o'clock arrived, and, with it, Potter, stepping hesitantly into his office.

At least the hesitation restored some of Severus's cheer, though. Remembering his twin resolutions—to discover the source of Potter's Occlumency and to break him—Severus turned towards him, steepling his fingers.

"I'm here, sir," Potter muttered, eyes on the floor, and then looked around. "You don't have cauldrons for me to scrub?"

"Look at me, Potter."

The boy disobeyed for a few seconds, of course, fidgeting and taking every excuse to glance in another direction. The disobedience raised Severus's temper higher. By the time he could finally tear into Potter's thoughts with his Legilimency, he knew Potter _deserved_ this.

The result was the same as on Thursday night. Once again, he encountered slick, shimmering walls of Occlumency, and his efforts to sense more than the faintest shine of Potter's memories were frustrated.

He opened his own eyes again and leaned forward. This time, there was no question that Potter knew what he had done. He had backed away, his nostrils flaring and his face white.

"You had no right to do that!" he yelled.

Severus cast a spell to detect magic without answering. The stupid boy had to know that his little deception would be discovered sooner or later. Or, no, perhaps he had been both arrogant and stupid enough to think that he could fool Severus. He could not, and that was an end to it.

A tiny amulet, a battered-looking little thing, on a chain around Potter's neck flared with dazzling light. Severus snapped to his feet. "Where did you get that?" he whispered.

Potter covered it with a hand and glared at him. "What's it to you?"

"Ten points from Gryffindor House for disrespect," Severus said quietly, and Potter's lower lip quivered. He had to know that neither Minerva nor his friends would be pleased if he lost any more. Gryffindor was already lower in points than they'd been in any October since Potter entered the school. "I cannot read your thoughts, and I _know_ you have not mastered Occlumency." He would have paused over the flare of joy that lit Potter's face at that, but he dismissed it; the brat probably thought he would let him go now. "That amulet is protecting your mind. Where did you get it? Have you any idea, foolish child, how dangerous objects that can touch your memories are?"

"I have some idea," Potter muttered, his eyes fixed as if he were considering a specific thought, which Severus doubted. Potter's thoughts were all general. "But, anyway, I found it among _my godfather's_ things. It's mine."

That _my godfather_ did it, after the day he'd had. Severus aimed his wand at Potter again. "Take it off," he said. "Now."

* * *

Harry let his breathing quicken as he removed the amulet, in reality nothing more than a cheap chain touched with a few glamours and Oddivarius's Charm. Then he looked up and met Snape's eyes again—

Just as the man intoned, "_Legilimens._"

And Harry had to act as if the amulet had given him Occlumency, dropping his shields and letting Snape read his mind.

It felt like a violation, more horrible than last year, probably because he'd learned to protect his mind this time. Harry could actually feel those potions-stained fingers digging through his thoughts, it seemed, pawing some of them and discarding others like rubbish.

He gritted his teeth and endured. The first memories Snape bumped into would be the ones that, hopefully, would drive him out of Harry's mind without more effort expended.

The memory of Snape's Pensieve was there first, of Snape spinning upside-down, gray pants displayed for the world to see, Sirius's laughter and James Potter's echoing around him. The hands became maddened and drove further into his head, making Harry cry out in pain. It took everything he had not to raise his shields again. He _had_ to be free at the end of the evening, his secrets intact, and that meant convincing Snape he was helpless.

Then came the memory of the fight Snape and Sirius had had in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, the name _Snivellus _true to the life. Harry had carefully draped his own scorn of Snape around that as much as he could. He had to make Snape think he thought the nickname was the funniest thing in the world. Concentrating hard, he did manage to force a muffled snort through his lips.

One more dig. One more memory. Harry hoped that would do it, since he had no other memories as powerful as these to throw at Snape.

This time, he saw Snape throwing him out of his office after he'd snooped into the Pensieve. And he felt his own rage, his own conviction, at the beginning of summer, that _this_ was the reason Sirius had died. If Snape had been more patient, had insisted Harry come back and resume his lessons, or had acted more like an _adult—_

And that worked. The painful presence was suddenly gone from his head. Harry let out a gasp of relief, and raised his shields again.

And then he found his arm gripped and shaken, and looked up into Snape's maddened face.

* * *

The beginnings of Severus's good mood had vanished. That seemed to happen often lately, and the fault was always Potter's. The boy was _intolerable._ Instead of learning something over the summer, perhaps coming to some vague emotion of remorse for what he'd done, he'd decided that he had the _right_ to snoop, and that Severus's most humiliating memory was funny.

"Do you know the _real_ reason your godfather died?" he hissed at Potter.

The boy ceased to struggle against him for a moment. "Because of you!" he shouted. "And because of Kreacher, and because of Bellatrix Lestrange, may she _rot_. May you _all_ rot, _Snivellus_—"

Another shake, this time hard enough that the boy bit his tongue, and a small trickle of blood ran down his face. Severus felt a surge of dark satisfaction at the sight. He'd never manhandled a student as badly as this, but he'd never had a student on whom their salvation depended.

Perhaps he could make Potter realize the seriousness of his position now. That was the excuse he intended to use if the boy went blubbering to Albus, at least.

"It was you," he whispered. "You were not adult enough. You were not _man_ enough, not _wizard_ enough, to come back to me after that incident, apologize, and beg for the lessons to resume."

"You wouldn't have taught me again anyway!" Potter was twisting against his hold like a hooked fish. Severus shifted his hand, pinching a large nerve. Potter gasped and went limp and helpless against him. It was rather a nice feeling.

"Never underestimate what a certain amount of groveling can do, Mr. Potter," he murmured. "Of course, it would not serve _now_, but it might have _then_, when Black was still alive. And then you would have blocked your mind, then you would have mastered Occlumency, and then the Dark Lord could not have sent you that vision, and he would still be alive."

Potter's gasping breath was the loudest sound in the room.

"Black came only because _you_ were in danger," Severus continued remorselessly. "Do you think that a threat to the Ministry alone would have been enough to bring him out of that house? No. What had the Ministry done to him but accused him wrongly and locked him away?" He did not believe that, of course, but that didn't matter. What mattered was hurting Potter. "He came because of _you_. And you have known for _years_ that your life is the reason the Dark Lord has not yet seized control of the wizarding world. The Boy-Who-_Lived_. And what do you do? Foolishly risk that life, and draw Black after you, as nothing else could have done."

"That's not true." Potter sounded close to tears. Severus shifted so that he could see his face.

"It is true, Mr. Potter," he said. "You have not paid as much attention to defeating the Dark Lord as you have to Quidditch. You do not realize, do you, how many sacrifices have been made to keep you safe? Your parents' lives. Black's freedom, and then his life. Diggory's life. My own safety." It was permissible to say that, since Potter was obviously aware of his past. "Your friends' lives, when the Dark Lord begins to take notice of them as important to you. No one is safe, Potter, until you begin to _pay attention_ to what you _must do._ And you never have. Black is dead. The loss of your beloved godfather did not teach you that you were a weak-willed little boy. Will learning that you were the instrument of his execution do it, I wonder?"

He held his breath. Everything was tense and silent for a moment, Potter's body trembling wildly. He seemed oddly thin, but then, he had always been slight.

And there it was, the moment Severus had waited for, the glitter of a tear at the corner of Potter's eye. He dropped the boy like a rag, letting him fall to his knees. Potter put his hands over his face. He did not sob, but the silence was in some ways worse—or better, like a balm to Severus's severely bruised ego.

"Get out of my sight," he said softly. "I will keep this." A quick step fetched him the charm the boy had been wearing, and he crushed it beneath his boot heel. "Consider yourself forewarned of the punishments to come."

Potter fled. Severus sat down, with a thin smile, and began planning the detention tomorrow. It would involve lines—very special lines.

Yes, he did feel _intensely _better. He needed to torment Potter, to show him his own stupidity and thoughtlessness, in the midst of the mire that his own life had become.

* * *

_See? I'm strong. I was wise enough to start seeing the truth this summer, so that Snape can't torment me with it now._

It hurt anyway, of course. Every time he came face-to-face anew with the realization that he'd killed Sirius, it hurt. But Harry wasn't destroyed the way Snape probably wanted him to be. He already knew it was his fault, and that meant he could think of ways to make up for it, instead of just crying like a baby.

And he'd fooled Snape. He'd _won_. Snape didn't think he was smart enough to master Occlumency on his own, and that was his mistake. And he hadn't thought at _all_ about what it meant that Harry hadn't told Ron and Hermione about that memory in the Pensieve.

_He never will find out, not until it's too late._

Harry smiled. Ron and Hermione wouldn't expect him back in Gryffindor Tower for hours yet, since detentions with Snape usually lasted much longer than this. He had some extra time to master his Occlumency.

He was nearly ready to make the first tests of the Beholding technique, he thought.

_The better I am, the sooner I can do this._

_Almost there, Sirius._


	5. Lines

Thank you again for all the reviews! I can promise that the battles between Snape and Harry will continue for awhile, since the story has two main "arcs" of action, and this is the mainstay of the first one.

_Chapter 5—Lines_

Harry got post the next morning, and that surprised him. The _Daily Prophet_ hadn't published any flattering or insulting articles about him lately, which was usually the main cause of him receiving mail from strangers. And, though the envelope was thick and his name written on the outside in what looked like calligraphy, the owl that delivered it was an ordinary, scruffy one that looked to have come from a common posting service.

"Who's that from, Harry?" Ron asked, leaning over Harry's shoulder to look at the letter, his mouth dripping porridge. Hermione glared at him in disgust and rapped his knuckles with her spoon, which he didn't appear to notice.

"I don't know," Harry said, and opened the letter slowly, wondering if it was going to be full of Bubotuber pus like some of the letters Hermione had received in fourth year. Nothing happened, though, other than the sheet of parchment inside sagging until Harry had to move it away from his own porridge bowl.

He glanced at the signature, and immediately folded the letter over. He couldn't chance Ron or Hermione seeing this.

"What does it say, Harry?" Ron looked a bit hurt that he was hiding the letter, Harry knew, but he couldn't help it. His heart had begun to beat so madly that he was in danger of losing his breath.

"It's to do with Sirius's estate," he said, grabbing the first lie that came to him, and the only one that might explain why he looked so upset. "I'm sorry, I just—I want to read it alone. Is that all right?"

"Of course, Harry," Hermione said, and hit Ron in the ribs with an elbow when he would have objected. "Especially since you've spent so much time studying lately, and you don't have Transfiguration until ten-o'clock."

Harry muttered something indistinct, and then ran out of the Great Hall. A few people stared after him, but not many. His efforts to make himself more inconspicuous had paid off in that way, at least. The muted reports of Death Eater attacks attracted more attention than the Boy-Who-Lived now.

Alone, Harry managed to read the letter without panicking.

_October 29th, 1996_

_To Harry Potter:_

_I realize this may seem a strange way to send a letter, but it has taken me months to swallow my pride and approach you. An alliance between us would be of inestimable value, and I can only beg that you consider that before you reject my offer out of hand._

_You-Know-Who's return to the wizarding world is of such momentous import that everything next to it seems small. I hope you will agree with me, and realize that the Boy-Who-Lived lending his public voice and support to the Ministry of Magic would help to calm panic and make our people respond to the war with reason, instead of fear._

_Either of us can hardly be seen meeting the other. Therefore, I ask for a private colloquy on Thursday evening in Hogsmeade, at seven-o'clock. The owner of Zonko's is indebted to me, and will not question my wish to borrow the private room in the back of his shop for an evening. Send me a letter accepting the offer or declining it; either way, there is not much time._

_Rufus Scrimgeour,_

_British Minister of Magic,_

_Former Head of the Auror Office,_

_Order of Merlin, Second Class._

Harry leaned his head back on the wall and considered as carefully as he could when thoughts were dancing around his head. Could he successfully sneak out of Hogwarts to meet the Minister? Of course he could, given the Invisibility Cloak, but should he? If someone found him missing, then—

And then Harry scolded himself, and yanked his thoughts back to that simple standard he had to test his every action by now. Would it help him defeat Voldemort and make up his debt to Sirius?

Yes, on balance, he rather thought it would. The Minister wasn't friends with Dumbledore, to Harry's knowledge, and he could provide Harry with evidence and information that Dumbledore was probably keeping from him out of a desire "not to worry him," or, at the very least, that he would want to know why Harry needed. And of course Scrimgeour would want something in return. Public support of the Ministry was a small enough price. Perhaps, if Harry could arrange things carefully, those public appearances would even ease other people's grief when he died.

There was the question of whether people would miss him on Thursday evening to settle, of course.

And then Harry grinned, and found his intuition was correct when he reread the letter. Yes, the Minister had asked for a meeting during the same time that Harry was supposed to serve Snape's detention. That was an iron-clad excuse for why Ron and Hermione wouldn't miss him, and Dumbledore was unlikely to go searching for him, either.

Missing the detention would place him in Snape's bad graces, of course, but Harry _wanted_ to be there. He _wanted_ Snape to be so enraged that he wouldn't be curious. And, so far, he hadn't got Snape to that point. Snape seemed convinced there was still some defiance in Harry that had to be broken.

But missing a detention should teach him that Harry was so stupid he couldn't be interesting.

Harry went to write the response to the Minister, and plan the best way to leave the school on Thursday evening. It meant he'd have to take several precautions. He didn't mind that. Taking precautions and making true plans had become a way of life to him.

* * *

Harry entered Snape's office for his Tuesday night detention with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor and his Occlumency shields bending and flexing. He'd have to lower them if Snape met his gaze again, and he hated the sensation of vulnerability that pricked at his mind without them.

Of course, he only had one more day of study until he was ready to practice the Siren Song, and that would make the Wednesday detention _interesting_. But, for tonight, he had to play the helpless victim without much more than wisdom to recommend the course.

He wondered absently when he had become so obsessed with secret advantages and having as many of them as possible, but then dismissed the thought as an absurdity. He knew exactly when it had happened, the day he'd grown up and realized he couldn't be a child anymore.

"You will be writing lines today, Potter," Snape said, and he didn't tell Harry to look up. "If you turn to your left, you will see the table, parchment, and ink you require, and the scroll you are to copy. You will go on until I tell you to stop."

Harry didn't say a thing as he sat down and pulled the scroll towards him. Even if Snape had a Blood Quill like Umbridge had, he wouldn't make a sound. Someone with stupid pride would try to resist like that, and his plan to deflect Snape's attention relied on Snape assuming he was the same person as last year, only magnified.

Snape's eyes on his face as he picked up the quill were like nails. Harry didn't care. He dipped the quill into the ink and looked at the first line.

_Sirius Black spent most of his time in school hexing students younger than he was. He deserved to be put in Azkaban, and it was only an unfortunate coincidence that the crime that sent him there was not what he should have been punished for._

Harry sat quite still for a long moment.

"Did you or did you not hear me?" Snape's voice was so soft that the sound of Harry's heartbeat nearly overcame it. "I told you to write. You are not to cease the movement of your quill until I give you permission."

Harry went through several wild revolutions in his own head in the space of a few moments. He could do what he really wanted to do: refuse to dishonor Sirius's memory, which had become so important to him in the last few months, and throw Snape's punishment back in his face. But that would only convince Snape that he could be reached, that he was sensitive, and then the man would never shut up, never cease to worry at him.

Or he could sit and write quietly, which would admit the truth of what he'd seen in the Pensieve, but deny everything that was good about Sirius, everything Harry felt sorry about killing.

_Well. When there are only two choices, then you make a third._

He took a deep breath and lowered his quill to the parchment. He could almost feel Snape's incredulity when he began to write, his eyes flickering back and forth between the scroll and his own work to make sure that he didn't miss or blot a word.

Of course, the sharp stare eased when Harry bit his lip and gave a sound suspiciously like a sob. Let Snape think he was weak enough to cry in front of him, like he had last night, but too proud to get up and walk away—or too afraid of losing more points for Gryffindor. Whatever impression of him Snape took away from this detention, Harry was determined that it would be a false one.

_You cannot know me, not ever again. You're only a bump on the road to defeating Voldemort._

Meanwhile, he talked quietly to Sirius in his head, apologizing for what he had to do, telling him that he thought he was wonderful, and that he'd chosen the course he had—learning Occlumency, learning how to snare Voldemort, protecting his secrets from Snape—for his sake. The words he wrote down might _feel_ etched on his heart, but they never could be, not compared with what he voiced silently to himself in the privacy of his own mind.

He knew Sirius hadn't been perfect. But Sirius was the only person in the world, other than Ron, who had ever offered to let Harry live with him, and he was the only person who would have done that and been just _Harry's_. Ron had his parents, and Harry wouldn't be his only brother, or the only child in the Weasley family if they had adopted him. He appreciated the offer, really he did, but it wouldn't have been the same as living with Sirius.

And even if he did have to acknowledge Sirius's faults, that didn't mean he had to think of them in isolation from his good points: his courage, his resilience, his loyalty to old friends. So Harry thought of them, and sometimes he sniffled to convince Snape he was breaking, and he wrote steadily on.

He could look weak in front of Snape. What was pride, next to the chance to remain free and pursue his own duty? Besides, it was false weakness.

Finally Snape said, when Harry was in the middle of a sentence about Sirius's incompetence in telling traitors apart from loyalists to Dumbledore, "Stop."

Harry obediently dropped the quill and turned to regard the Potions Professor. Snape sat with his hands folded in front of him, and when his eyes met Harry's, Harry could easily feel the bolt of Legilimency going home.

Given what he'd just been thinking about, it was easy to summon the memory of Sirius making the offer to let Harry live with him, and then the memory of Sirius in the Shrieking Shack, and then Sirius leaving Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in dog form to accompany Harry to King's Cross. Snape sat back when he'd seen that last one, and a faint smile played along his lips.

"And you realize that that was a sign of his recklessness?" he asked sharply. "You realize that he deserved to die?"

"He didn't _deserve_ to die," said Harry, because there was no way he could let that one pass. He kept his head up and his eyes fixed on Snape's, a quivering, open, weak child to Snape's gaze. _I'm that way. That's all you see. That's all you can see. _"But I deserve punishment for having killed him."

He let his eyes and his voice fall then, until he was staring at his hands. His fingers were spotted with ink. He thought idly that he should make absolutely sure that his hands and robes were clean before he went to meet the Minister on Thursday. He wanted to impress Scrimgeour.

Silence answered him instead of the retort that he'd expected, and Harry finally looked up again. Snape had his face turned aside, and his features and eyes looked shadowed, as if he were thinking deeply.

_No. No, damn it! No deep thoughts, Snape!_

"I wish," Harry said, and flung all the passion he was capable of into his voice, "I wish it had been _you_ instead."

And that was the right move, because Snape's eyes came back to him with familiar hatred, fierce disgust, and the dismissal that Harry most needed right now. Snape couldn't be suspicious of him, because he knew James Potter's personality, and he thought Harry was a copy of James.

"I am sure you do, Potter," Snape whispered. "After all, why shouldn't you wish for the person who's saved your life several times now to be dead, and the person who recklessly endangered his own to live?"

"He _didn't_ endanger his own," Harry said. "I brought him out. I killed him. You said that."

"So I did," Snape said. "And it is true."

"Of course it is." Harry lowered his head and let his voice trail off as if he were too choked up to say more.

"You are dismissed for tonight, Potter." Snape waved a hand at him. "I suggest you think about what you have written, and how true it is."

_Not at all, _Harry reassured himself as he slipped out of the office. _And tomorrow, Snape, won't it be your turn for a surprise?_

* * *

Severus sat back, and resisted the impulse to tap his fingers against his lips. It was an old gesture he often used when he found an intriguing puzzle or mystery, but Potter was not intriguing enough to justify it. Really, there was nothing unusual in his behavior. Just like a teenager to be melodramatic. Just like James Potter's son to believe passionately that he was the center of the universe, and that everything, for good or evil, came back to him.

But Severus's instincts were on fire, and when they burned like this, he had to look more closely at what had caught his attention, senseless or not.

A Potter from last year would have screamed at him about the unfairness of that punishment rather than write those lines. A Potter believing himself responsible for the death of Black would have screamed _those_ words, rather than write the ones on the scroll, which said nothing about his guilt. A normal Potter would have died rather than show weakness in front of Severus Snape.

_He showed you weakness last night._

_He was broken down then._

_And this would have broken him less?_

Severus could not believe that. He prided himself on the cleverness and appropriate nature of his revenge. The lines should have shattered Potter along new and different cracks, not only exploited the old ones. And Merlin forbid that Potter should get _used_ to the torment.

Yet it seemed he had. He had only sniffled. So either the punishment had failed completely, which Potter's display later would argue against, or—

Or the weakness the night before had been a show, too.

But even there, Severus ran up against a quandary, because how in the world could Potter have thought of that ruse? He was too stupid, and Severus believed in Potter's stupidity as firmly as he did his own intelligence.

It was a puzzle, all in all, and Severus did not intend to let it go until he solved it—even though he reassured himself he could only do that by seeking out depths to Potter's imbecility never before seen.


	6. The Siren Song

Thanks again for the reviews! And yes, Snape does move closer and closer to suspecting something is wrong with Harry, but obstacles get in the way.

Not least, Harry himself.

_Chapter 6—The Siren Song_

"Oh, _Harry._"

The disappointment in Hermione's voice was so great that Harry was half-convinced she'd seen the cover of his book on Occlumency and somehow divined all his plans from there. But when he looked up, her gaze was fixed mournfully on the Potions book he'd "borrowed" from her.

"I _knew_ you wanted to study Potions," she continued. "I _knew_ you were disappointed that you didn't get an O on the O.W.L. But you could have told me about it, and I would have been glad to lend you the book." She pushed her hair out of her face and gave him a melancholy smile. "There's no reason to hide your ambitions from your friends, you know."

Harry managed to smile back as he answered. _You have no idea, Hermione. _"I didn't want to tell you I was still interested in Potions. I was—well, I was embarrassed, after the way I've acted towards Snape."

"He might—he might still take you into the class?" But then Hermione shook her head. "No, I don't think he would. Oh, _Harry._"

"I know he won't," said Harry. "But even if I can't be an Auror, I might still need to know Potions for fighting Voldemort." He waited until the flash of pride in Hermione's eyes was positively glowing, and then reached out and laid one hand on hers. "But I didn't want to bother you, and buying a Potions book of my own—someone would have found out, and told Snape. Then I'd have to face his scorn as well as these _awful_ detentions." He'd been able to blame the dark circles from studying and constant Occlumency practice on the detentions, which was almost enough to make him thank Snape for giving them to him. "So is it all right if I just borrow your book for now, Hermione, and you won't tell anyone about this?"

"Of course," Hermione said sturdily. "You're right, the last thing you need is to have a new interest ridiculed."

_Or for Snape to become interested in the potion I'm brewing._ Harry endured Hermione's hug, watched her leave, and then turned back to the instructions he'd marked, and covered with one hand the moment he became aware he had company.

As much as he wished he could just lift his wand and cast the Killing Curse at himself when he had Voldemort trapped in his mind, Harry couldn't be sure it would work. He and Voldemort were connected in strange ways, and while he depended on those ways to be able to trap Voldemort from a distance, instead of going to him, it might also mean that magic channeled through a brother wand wouldn't be enough to kill Harry's body. What would happen if his enemy seized control of his wand? And, besides, it was impossible to really practice the Killing Curse beforehand, and he'd hate to arrive at the culmination of his plans and then find out he couldn't fulfill them.

No, what Harry needed was a potion, a poison slow enough that it would leave him time to call Voldemort after he took it, but active enough that it would begin destroying his vital organs before Voldemort could use Reversal on him to break out of the trap. And after careful searching through Hermione's Potions book and several other books in the library, there was only one that fit his criteria.

If Snape found out what he was doing, Harry knew he would guess the truth in a moment. Well, probably not the _truth_, as he had a great faith in Harry's stupidity, but he would know the potion from a glance at the ingredients. Harry couldn't chance that.

He carefully memorized the list of what he'd need—he was _not_ going to carry a piece of parchment with him, not when someone might find and take it—and then nodded. He was certain he could buy all of these in Hogsmeade, where he'd go tomorrow to meet Scrimgeour.

Meanwhile, he had something else planned for the detention with Snape tonight.

* * *

Severus sighed, but permitted himself no sign of exasperation other than that. Draco didn't actually _deserve_ it. The boy had tried hard. It was not his fault that memories of his mother were the best distraction technique Severus could have flung at him while they dueled.

"Try again," Severus said quietly, when Draco had finished expelling the contents of his stomach in a corner.

Draco glared at him through tear-filled eyes, though he blinked hard, and the tears did not actually fall. Severus raised a brow. That was the first sign of toughness he'd seen in the boy in a while, and he had to commend it. He would have liked best, of course, a student whose determination and will kept him from weeping at all, but the signs of its development would make the sessions with Draco tolerable.

"How _could_ you?" Draco whinged.

Most of Severus's sympathy vanished at once. "The Dark Lord will use Legilimency on you," he said sharply. "During your final test to become part of the Death Eaters, if no time else. What do you think he will inflict on you? What weak spots will he press? Convince him you are weak, and he will kill you. And, of course, if a sudden attack of Legilimency comes your way from Dumbledore or anyone else on the old fool's side who may possess the skill—" there was no one like that, as far as Severus knew, but Dumbledore and himself, but he wasn't about to let Draco know that "—then they will find those memories, if they are floating at the front of your mind. And they may suspect you know where the Dark Lord is."

Draco lowered his head and looked sulky. "I did learn Occlumency from Aunt Bella," he muttered. "I should be able to prevent the attacks when you fling them at me. I don't know why I can't."

Severus kept his opinion that Bellatrix was a horrible teacher of Occlumency to himself. It was true that she could manage the art, in a half-scattered way, but she had twisted and broken it into shards, adapting it to the protection and defense of her own insane mind. A sane person trying to learn from her would have no luck, and even a madman would have been hard-pressed to take a system so individual and abstract general principles from it. Draco had learned only pieces from her, and Severus was glad of it and sorry for it at the same time.

"You must concentrate," he said. "And, of course, spells coming at one rather diminish one's concentration."

Draco fidgeted from foot to foot for a moment without answering. Then he asked abruptly, "When do you think I'll be ready to take the field?"

_In two years, _Severus wished he could answer. The boy simply had no aptitude for anything but the most basic parts of a duelist's work. He had the eagerness to show off that sometimes could substitute for skill, and if he faced a weaker opponent, he would grow confident and acquit himself well. But against someone superior, as Severus undoubtedly was, he lost his temper far too easily when he didn't score an immediate victory, and then began attacking impatiently, firing off curses that Severus could effortlessly block or dodge.

But he had to pretend to train Draco to an acceptable level of competence soon, and he had to nudge him towards the Order of the Phoenix as much as possible.

"In a few months," he said, and if Draco did not look satisfied with that answer, he at least looked less sulky. "Now. Raise your wand. Concentrate on _defense_, not offense, when I attack you."

Just as Draco fell into position, Severus felt an odd tugging and pulling at his mind. His attention wanted to go elsewhere, it seemed. He blinked watering eyes, and wondered if someone stood outside his wards. He sometimes felt like this when that happened, but it had never been enough to distract him from a duel before.

"Professor?" Draco asked.

"A moment," Severus whispered, and took a step towards the door of his office. But even that wasn't enough. The sensation went on tugging at his thoughts, urging him on—but the motion of the body wasn't the right kind of motion, Severus realized almost at once. He should close his eyes and send out a questing thought in the direction of the pull, almost as if he were trying Legilimency without a pair of eyes to look into.

He did so.

The pull did not cease, but it modified. Where before it had been a nagging, maddening itch, now it filled him with a soft laxity and a general sense of well-being. Severus stood still, quietly breathing, more and more of his mind flowing out of him in the direction of the pull, the room and Draco seeming very far away.

* * *

Harry would have smiled if he hadn't needed all his concentration for what he was doing. It had _worked._

The book had said that the Siren Song was a means of calling the attention of an enemy Legilimens, without his realizing the Occlumens was doing so. Unlike most of the art, it could be practiced without eye contact, though the author cautioned the Song's main purpose was to lure the Legilimens close enough that eye contact could be established. Practiced rightly, it lulled its victim into a dream-like state and didn't let him realize what was happening until the Singer was already inside his shields.

Harry didn't quite dare to practice on Dumbledore. But he wanted some assurance that he could do this before he began to call Voldemort, and for several reasons, Snape was the perfect test subject.

Harry hummed under his breath; the book had recommended a focus of some kind to keep the Song going, either a tune or a rhythmic physical motion like rubbing a stone with the fingers. As he hummed, he thought of Snape, and tried to weave his memories of the man into the melody, until the rise of the music mimicked the snap of his cloak, and the dips were the way he strode.

Like would seek like, the book said. The Siren Song, adapted to its target, would reach out and latch onto his mind. And then he would come nearer and nearer, not even realizing what he did.

Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud. He didn't stand far from Snape's office, that was true, just against a dungeon wall, hidden under his Invisibility Cloak. But that didn't matter. He was still _doing_ this, capturing the man's attention without eye contact. He could feel Snape's mind floating before him, not tamed but soothed, shut away from the world.

He was tempted to lure Snape in even further and practice Beholding on him, but he was already tired, his hold on the Song slipping, and he would need to arrange matters more carefully if he wanted Beholding to succeed the first time. So he dropped the tune, carefully, chord by chord, and let Snape's attention snap back to himself.

* * *

Severus opened his eyes to find himself on the floor, Draco bending over him, calling his name in a whisper. Severus sat up so fast his head nearly collided with the boy's, and then groaned. He had a _pounding_ headache, cutting across his brow like a crown of thorns.

_Someone adapted a Siren Song to me._

The thought made his gut tighten with anxiety. Besides Draco, Dumbledore, and himself, there was not another Occlumens in the castle. That left some plot of the Dark Lord's. Merlin knew he had the power to reach out from a distance and grasp someone's mind if he knew them well, and his link to Snape through the Dark Mark gave him a unique advantage.

_What was his purpose in holding me still and then letting me go?_

_Perhaps to learn things that he knows he cannot glean from me face to face?_

If that was the case, then, even if he had learned nothing or little from this evening's exercise, the Dark Lord was close to suspecting the truth about Severus and who the traitor in his ranks might be. It might be enough if he knew Severus was an Occlumens.

"Professor Snape? Sir?"

With a sharp motion of his head, Severus recalled that Draco stood in the same room with him, and that the boy knew next to nothing of his real position or the true struggle. Of course, Severus could not hide his collapse, but he could control what Draco knew about it.

"I've been affected by the potion I'm brewing, Draco, the counter to Veritaserum," he said quietly. Draco's eyes widened appreciatively, more over being trusted with the secret than anything else, Severus knew. "I need you to help me to bed and seal off the potions lab. When Potter comes, you may set him to scrubbing cauldrons." It was not the torture he'd wanted to give Potter, but the headache screaming in his ears and through his mind like some banshee wouldn't permit him to hear Potter's shrill voice without pain.

"Of course, sir." Draco's chest puffed out. "You can count on me."

Severus limped carefully across the office to the hidden door that led to his chambers, and Draco helped him into bed. Severus lay down and closed his eyes. The smooth pillow beneath his cheek, and the headache draught that Draco brought him a moment later, helped to ease his pain, though not his fear.

_Either it was the Dark Lord, or there's someone else in the castle who's an Occlumens capable of practicing the Siren Song._

_Or—it could be both._

Severus's eyes flared open. If the Dark Lord were possessing Potter, as he had originally thought, many things became possible. Even the charm that seemed to grant Potter protection of his mind could have been a ruse.

At the moment, he was too much in pain to do anything about it. But that would change tomorrow.

Determined to keep an even closer eye on the boy than before, Severus drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Harry didn't mind the fact that Malfoy supervised his detention, with self-important words about how Snape "had better things to do tonight." He rather enjoyed the thought that he'd caused Snape so much pain the bastard had to rest. Besides, Malfoy's insults were nothing to Snape's.

And when he'd briefly met Malfoy eye to eye, he'd recognized the remains of Occlumency shields. Not very good ones, but they would do.

It seemed he had another test subject, one easier to manipulate than Snape, and much less dangerous should he figure out what was going on.

_Everything's going just fine, Sirius, _Harry thought happily, as he dragged a wire brush across a cauldron's rim. _I'm so near to paying you back I can taste it._


	7. Meeting the Minister

Thank you again for the reviews! I do mean what's in the summary, about this eventually becoming a Snape-mentors-Harry story; it just takes a long, long time to get there. Since the main thing that puts me off some fanfics is how rushed they are—either in depicting a relationship or cramming too much plot into too little time—I promise that this story goes slowly.

_Chapter 7—Meeting the Minister_

Rufus handed his cloak to Jurgen Zonko, who had welcomed him with a nervous little bow and a glare over his shoulder into the dark, as if he could warn Death Eaters off merely with that. Rufus knew Jurgen was thinking about closing his shop as the attacks moved closer and closer to Hogsmeade, but his love of profit was stronger than his fear. For right now, at least. Whether he left or stayed, the Minister intended to meet Harry Potter in his back room. It was a convenient location for the castle, and no one else knew about the Life Debt Jurgen owed him.

"Sir?" asked one of the Aurors who had come with him, a younger fellow named Mudwallow.

"Stand guard," Rufus said. "I'll be out in an hour or two at most." He had told them he had to come here, but not why. He wouldn't risk humiliation if Potter refused to show up or declined his offer.

Mudwallow looked unhappy, and so did Hestia Jones, the Auror who'd taken up her position on the left side of the door. But both faced the alley behind Zonko's grimly, and finally let Jurgen shut the door.

"You recall my instructions?" Rufus asked, as he sat down in one of the two chairs at the prepared table. That was enough to let him see that his old debtor had remembered _some_ of what he asked for: the table was set with two mugs, bottles of both Firewhiskey and Butterbeer, and a few slices of hard cheese and bread on plates. A cheerful fire blazed on the hearth. Rufus flicked his wand in a subtle movement, a non-verbal incantation forming in his head, and was satisfied that no eavesdropping spells remained on the room.

"Yes, sir." Jurgen gave him another bow. "Go out of the room when we hear your guest arriving, and don't return until you give me permission."

"Exactly," Rufus said. Jurgen had reason not to reveal his presence here, but having both Harry Potter and the Minister under his roof might loosen his tongue, if only for the sake of the Galleons the _Daily Prophet_ could give him. "And I think I do hear him," he added. "Leave now."

The man hastily retreated. Rufus held still, listening, but the sounds he had thought were soft footsteps didn't repeat themselves. He sat back in his chair with a frown.

Then there was a shifting and a stirring in the corner near the door, and Harry Potter stood revealed to him, without even the whisper of a _Finite_ to banish a Disillusionment Charm. Startled and annoyed, Rufus stared at him for a long moment before he spoke.

Harry Potter was not what he had expected, he admitted to himself at once—though perhaps he shouldn't have expected anything, since he'd only seen him from a distance before this. He still looked like a teenager in body, but he held his head as if a heavy burden on his shoulders necessitated he walk with his chin high, and there were shadows in his green eyes Rufus was more used to seeing in mature Aurors'. The depth and darkness of them usually occurred right before the Auror in question took his own life.

But Potter's gaze was steady as he held out his hand, and so was his voice. "Minister Scrimgeour? Thank you for meeting me."

"Thank you for agreeing, Mr. Potter," Rufus said, and shook the hand. That was steady, too, and Potter held the same aura of unnatural calmness in the way he walked, even in the way he sat. Rufus half-wished he would gloat about having startled him so badly when he appeared, but Potter appeared unconscious of that fact. He just sat still and looked at Rufus expectantly.

"The bargain I propose is simple," Rufus said. He hadn't meant his words to sound so rough and unpolished, but he wasn't making headway against the insolent questions or mindless support of Dumbledore he'd expected, either. His instincts told him Potter would best appreciate honesty. "Your support for the Ministry in public, and in return I—"

"Assure the support of the Ministry in my quest?" Potter's lips curved, though Rufus saw only pale amusement in his smile.

"Where I can," said Rufus. "But, more than that, Potter, I'll keep the Ministry out of your way."

* * *

Harry raised an eyebrow, and studied Scrimgeour again more closely. He'd had only the man's reputation to go on, and that made him into such a fighter that Harry had expected someone much more like Moody. But Scrimgeour was quieter than that, tenser, with a guarded wariness that made Harry ache with empathy.

"You know that Minister Fudge caused me trouble, then," he said.

Scrimgeour gave him a half-nod. "Yes. I watched your trial for using underage magic last year, and while I agree that laws should be obeyed, I was more curious about who had sent the Dementors into Surrey. And—well, the transfer of power was needed." He had a hunter's smile on his face now, like Sirius's, but tamer. Harry guessed Fudge's stepping down hadn't been completely voluntary.

"Can I ask, sir," Harry said, thinking of the previous year, "what position Madam Umbridge now holds in the Ministry?"

"Officially, she works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Scrimgeour murmured. "Unofficially, and in practice, nowhere at all. She embarrassed us, at a time when we badly need the public trust. She cannot be seen as the public face of the Ministry."

Harry exhaled. That at least rid him of one enemy who might have tried to backstab him in the near future. "And what other ways can you keep the Ministry out of my way, sir, now that two people who hindered and interfered with my life are gone?"

"By looking the other way," Scrimgeour said blandly. "Should your activities conflict with a—regulation—I could instruct the proper people to have their eyes busy elsewhere. Of course, should the defiance of regulations become defiance of certain levels of authority, I could do little."

Harry nodded. "And if I were to use certain spells—"

Scrimgeour raised a hand, his face gone stern. "_Don't_ ask for an exemption for the Unforgivable Curses, Potter. I won't give it."

Harry shook his head. "I wouldn't." Since he'd tried to use the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix and failed, he'd come to the conclusion that he'd need more training in hatred than he had to effectively wield the Unforgivables. He didn't have the time before he died, and his plan freed him from the necessity. "But certain offensive spells might be illegal. I don't know all the intricacies of the laws. If I need to stop Death Eaters, and don't have time to consult a book…"

A small smile took the place of Scrimgeour's frown, and his hand dropped back to the table. "Yes. There _are_, after all, so many crimes committed on a daily basis, so many Aurors sent everywhere in the country, and even abroad. It is no great wonder that some cases never come to trial."

Harry smiled. "Then—"

"There is also one thing I can offer you personally," Scrimgeour interrupted him. "I believe that Sirius Black, after all, was innocent?"

* * *

The transformation in Potter when he spoke those words stunned Rufus. Instantly the boy across the table seemed to throb with darkness, and the serenity became focused malevolence. If he'd conjured a knife into his hand and pointed it, he could not have looked more threatening. As it was, he leaned forward, and Rufus felt the gaze _like_ a knife against his jugular.

"The Ministry hunted and hounded him for a crime he didn't commit," Harry hissed. "And, besides, his name was _already_ cleared, or I couldn't have inherited his estate as I did."

_You inherited his estate? How very interesting. _Rufus had not been aware of that detail. He carefully tucked it away in the back of his mind. "No," he said calmly, and ignored the feeling that that knife-gaze was about to scratch out his eyes. "Wizards' wills, if presented in a certain way, automatically go into effect whether the deceased was guilty of a crime or not. Sirius Black evidently chose that way. His property is yours now, but he is not innocent in the Ministry's eyes. We _can_ clear him, if we examine the evidence closely. And if we have—proper motivation."

Potter's eyes shone with a different emotion yet again, still keen, but no longer deadly. "I don't think I like you very much, Minister," he said.

Rufus laughed. "That is only fair," he said. "This is a business transaction, Mr. Potter, not a personal alliance." _Though it could be, in the future. You are much more impressive than I thought you were. _"I hold the safety of wizarding Britain in my hands, and you could do much to enhance and improve it. Now. Will you accept our non-interference and the opening of the investigation into Sirius Black's life and death as a high enough price for a _public_ interview with the _Daily Prophet_, expressing your support for the Ministry?"

Potter stayed silent for a moment, eyes on his hands. Then he said, "There are several problems with that, Minister."

"Go on," Rufus said. _The boy's a thinker. I didn't expect that. I don't know why. Just because he's under Dumbledore's influence doesn't mean he sits in a corner, drooling, and never uses his brain. _

"First of all," Potter said, "what happens if you do something I don't like? Throwing innocent people in Azkaban, for example." The twist to his mouth showed how strongly he, at least, believed in Sirius Black's innocence.

"The same thing that happens if you do use Unforgivables," Rufus said, "or do something I cannot possibly condone or ignore. This alliance is temporary, Mr. Potter, on both our parts. War makes strange bedfellows, but there is no need to bind ourselves in the blankets."

Potter smiled a bit. "Second," he said, "I'm supposed to be under Dumbledore's direct influence. If the interview comes out, there are going to be questions from him. And I have my reasons for wishing to attract little attention just now."

"Could he legally compel you to do things you find distasteful?" Rufus asked. He had looked into the question of Potter's guardianship, only to run into a maze of legal terms, half-finished or missing forms, and lines of ink that were apparently only there on alternate Tuesdays following a full moon. The Headmaster of Hogwarts had been at them, he was certain, and effectively confused Rufus as to who actually had the protection of Harry Potter.

The boy shook his head, though. "Not that I know of," he said. "I live with Muggle relatives. But he could expel me, and he's a Legilimens. He might learn a good portion of the truth from me before I could stop him."

Rufus relaxed. He did, actually, have a solution for that. "You're nearly seventeen," he said, "a wizard's legal age of majority. And given who you are, you have more right than most sixteen-year-old boys to hold an opinion on politics and what happens around you. If Dumbledore makes the atmosphere at Hogwarts too uncomfortable for you, you can become a ward of the Ministry. Your support means that fewer people would be surprised by that. I would look as if I were doing it out of gratitude for your support, not as a personal favor to you."

Potter's next expression was meditative. "Very well," he said at last. "I think I may be able to prevent Dumbledore from finding out, anyway." He paused, then added, "And finally, sir, this may be a strange question."

Rufus waved a hand to permit him to go ahead.

"You came guarded?" Rufus nodded. "What are the names of the Aurors who came with you?"

"Mudwallow and Jones," Rufus said, wondering at that. Potter's mouth puckered as if he'd swallowed a sour apple.

"This—this is difficult, and I can't explain it fully," he said finally. "But I'd trust Mudwallow more than Jones."

Rufus watched the boy's face, biting his tongue to keep the immediate questions behind his teeth. His first impulse was to ask if Jones was a Death Eater, but the boy wouldn't have had any reason not to tell him that at once. Then he wondered if she was somehow linked to Dumbledore, and that seemed a much more likely supposition.

Potter probably still had some loyalty to the Headmaster. He was acting independently of him, but that was not the same thing as acting against him. And betraying secrets he knew might seem wrong to him, regardless of whom he told them to. Thus, this half-truth was the best he could do.

Rufus would not demand the _impossible_ from his allies, only the improbable.

"Very well," he said. "I will keep that in mind."

* * *

Harry relaxed. He didn't want to come right out and say that Hestia Jones was part of the Order of the Phoenix. For all he knew, the Minister might decide to go off and conduct a search for all Order members, and that could do more harm than good. But if Dumbledore had spies in the Ministry, they would be Order members, and they would certainly tell the Headmaster that Harry had met with Scrimgeour.

"No one knows we're both here," Scrimgeour added, as if he'd heard Harry's opinions and wanted to reassure him.

Harry nodded. "Thank you, sir." He calculated time in his mind. He still had a few months until Christmas holidays, and he would need that much time, he thought, to perfect the Siren Song and to learn to brew Medea's Draught, the poison that would kill him. _When would be the best time for the interview?_

"Should I talk to the _Daily Prophet_ about the second week of November, sir?" he asked.

"That would be acceptable." Scrimgeour blinked at him. Harry had to conceal a smile. He probably wasn't used to someone so strongly associated with Dumbledore actually volunteering to help him.

Harry no longer saw himself as linked to Dumbledore, though. It was regrettable, because if he _could_ count on the Headmaster's support, he could have achieved his goal even faster. But Dumbledore would try to keep him alive, with that silly nonsense he'd talked about last term, the nonsense of loving Harry and wanting to preserve him from his responsibilities. Life–and death—worked best when he faced his responsibilities, Harry had found.

"Those are all the obstacles I can think of, sir," he said, and held out his hand.

Scrimgeour shook it again, all the while staring into his eyes. Harry wondered what he saw there, but shrugged off the thought that it could make the Minister suspicious. Like Harry, he existed to chase down Dark wizards. He probably saw the same ambition reflected. People saw _themselves_ in you, Harry was finding, or, in the case of Snape, James Potter. They saw what most flattered them or what would let them do what they wanted.

Harry couldn't really blame them. He saw them in terms of whether they could help or hurt his goal, now.

"Good luck with whatever you're doing, Potter," Scrimgeour said, and watched as Harry went to the door of the room. Harry drew his Invisibility Cloak around his head, just hearing Scrimgeour's startled oath. He smiled to himself and ducked out of Zonko's, quickly walking back towards Hogwarts.

He patted the ingredients for Medea's Draught in his pockets as he walked. They began with leaves of belladonna, but included many more innocuous things. Harry still hadn't wanted to buy them openly, though. For one thing, the apothecary would be sure to report Harry Potter coming into his store for Potions ingredients. He'd gone in silently in his cloak, taken what he needed, and left the Galleons to pay for them. The potion recipe was rare enough that anyone—except Snape—trying to guess what he wanted to brew from thinking about what he'd purchased would probably fail.

He got inside the school easily enough; it was Halloween, and even most of the prefects still enjoyed the Feast, and hadn't yet started patrolling the corridors. Harry wished them joy of it. It seemed like a long time since such things had made him happy. The Feast was a useful excuse, though. He would tell Snape he'd wanted to attend it badly enough to make him skip their detention.

He pulled his Cloak off his head the moment he was near the doors of the Great Hall, and then a hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around.

Harry found himself staring into Snape's eyes.


	8. Flexible Morals

And once more, thank you for the reviews!

Snape is nasty, no doubt about that, and will remain so for a good time to come. But no one ever said that Harry, as he is in this story, is perfectly nice, either.

**Also: **this chapter, and others like it, are what make the violence warning necessary. If you're sensitive to that, I would suggest skimming the last scene.

_Chapter 8—Flexible Morals_

Severus could feel a kind of bitter triumph moving in him. It was a satisfaction to know that Potter's efforts at concealment had failed, even when he had no idea what the concealment had been meant to hide.

He backed Potter to the wall, never letting go of his arm. Potter's eyes were steady, and he didn't flinch. There was more hatred in his face than Severus could ever remember seeing, but this wasn't the red-faced, spluttering anger he'd managed last year in their Occlumency lessons. This was dark, coiled and cold as one of the stone serpents that made up the Dark Lord's throne.

_Yes, this is not the boy I knew._

And Severus meant to learn why that was so, now.

"You were not at the Feast, Potter," he whispered. "I know it." His eyes flickered down to the boy's robes, and caught sight of mud on the hem. It had rained most of that day. "You took a walk to Hogsmeade." He leaned in, sending out a knife of Legilimency that would subtly cut apart the unaccountable Occlumency shields in Potter's head, slowly enough that he would not notice until they fell. "And you—"

He paused. An acrid smell drifted to his nostrils, one he would have expected in his classroom or his office but nowhere around Potter, who was not taking Potions this year. At once, his dread deepened, and his anger rushed to the surface, nearly strangling his voice as he drew his wand.

"_Accio_ belladonna."

A cluster of leaves shot out of Potter's robes, smacking into his palm next to his wand. Severus hissed, and was glad that his skin was whole. So deadly was belladonna that even handling the leaves when one had a small cut on the palm could lead to poisoning.

_He is creating a poison, or, at best, a draught to make someone sick for days.. Not even Albus can excuse this. His ideal student was plotting a murder._

"I will have the truth from you," he said, returning to eye contact with the boy. His Legilimency knife was digging deeper and deeper, and though it hadn't yet found a chink in the shields, that only increased Severus's opinion that he was dealing with a possessed Potter. The Dark Lord could manage this level of Occlumency without trouble, and his presence in Potter's head would account for everything else, as well, from the changed behavior to the Siren Song that Severus had felt last night.

Potter said nothing. His breaths were quick and hoarse, and he did not look down or back away from Severus, contradictory signals. Severus sneered a bit. Of course the Dark Lord would not suspect that anyone could find him out or check him.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Severus demanded, and gave the boy such a shake that his head flew back and impacted with the wall. "You have one last chance at explanation before I summon Dumbledore."

Potter exhaled, as if he'd made a decision. And then he twisted and rolled in Severus's grip, so suddenly that his fingers loosened in shock. Instinctively, he grabbed to keep the boy from running.

But Potter hadn't been trying to run. He'd been trying to draw his wand.

"_Obliviate!_"

* * *

Snape's face went slack. Harry took one moment to feel pure relief. He hadn't been sure that his hasty Memory Charm would work. 

In the remaining moments before Snape returned to himself, he snatched the belladonna leaves back and stuffed them into his robe pocket, then cast a cleaning spell to rid himself of mud. The Invisibility Cloak went into another pocket, and by then Snape was starting to blink and come back to life.

"I _won't_ come to detention with you tomorrow!" Harry hissed. "I don't _want_ to! A week of detentions with you, and what you made me do on Tuesday, is too much! I'll skip them if I bloody well _want_ to!"

Snape gave his head a shake and focused on him, scowling. Harry wondered if he would notice a blank in his memory, but he was counting on the fact that, even if he did, the git wouldn't want to display any weakness in front of his least favorite student.

And he did not.

"Your attitude needs correcting, Potter," he whispered. "You will come to detention with me all day Saturday."

Harry lowered his head and broke eye contact with Snape. He noticed the small, sharp bit of Legilimency in his head, and rejected it swiftly. He would have to watch that. Though Snape was more skilled as an Occlumens, he obviously had a dangerous subtlety at the mind-reading art.

"I can't, sir," he said tauntingly. "Slytherin and Gryffindor are playing Quidditch on Saturday, remember? Heads of House have to attend the game." He looked up and regarded Snape with a sweet smile.

The ache in the back of his head, and the horrible fear he'd felt clawing at him when he realized Snape might figure out what he was doing, were both worth it to see the way Snape's face twisted and his eyes flashed.

"You will come to my office at eight-o'clock on Saturday morning, Potter," he said. "I do not care how much time you need to train. _You_, at least, will not be attending the game."

_He doesn't know I'm not on the team any longer. _That would be a nice surprise for him when he finally inquired. Just now, though, Harry didn't want to bring it to his attention. It might be a bit too much strangeness, convincing Snape he was _too_ unlike himself and that Snape needed to investigate further.

"Always happy to oblige you, Snivellus," he said.

The hand on his arm tightened once more, but the doors of the Great Hall opened then, and the first students began to leave. Snape gave him one more look, full of dark promise, and murmured, "I will see you at seven-o'clock tomorrow night, as well, Potter. And dare you imagine what will be waiting for you?"

He turned and glided away.

Harry stood where he was for a moment, ignoring the curious glances a few people threw him. Let them assume what they wanted. They were from other Houses, casually interested in him if they were interested at all. They would forget all about him in minutes.

For the first time in his life, Harry was grateful that so few people knew him personally. What he planned would have been impossible without that.

A flash of pale hair caught his attention, and Harry moved towards a side corridor, his hand resting on the Cloak in his pocket.

It was time to go Malfoy-hunting.

* * *

Severus cursed, cast a preservation charm on the Veritaserum counter-potion to hold it in its current stage, and moved away from the cauldron. His hand was shaking. 

It had been years since anything had affected him so adversely, short of actual torture.

He could not remember what had happened between the time he had stood up from the head table in the Great Hall and the moment he met Potter's spiteful defiance outside it. But he could guess. He _did_ have a sensation of contact with another mind, of either his Legilimency or someone else's reaching into darkness and being repelled.

The Dark Lord was in the school somewhere, yes. Either he had reached through Severus's Mark and then cast a Memory Charm to cover his presence, or he had done something similar through Potter.

Severus did not think the Dark Lord had discovered he was a traitor, because of the simple fact that he was still alive.

And that meant _caution_. Whatever the Dark Lord wanted to find, he could not have found everything. Severus would go to Albus and make his suspicions clear tomorrow, emphasizing the necessity of watching Potter and those few other students in the school who might be candidates for possession. Perhaps the Dark Lord had left some fragment of himself in young Ginny Weasley from her adventure with him in her first year.

And he would take precautions against Memory Charms when he was alone with Potter during their detentions.

He _did_ pause, now, wondering if Potter could have cast the spell himself to protect a secret he held dear. Then he shook his head impatiently. Potter could have the power, the skill, and the determination if the Dark Lord reached through him and wielded him like a puppet, but on his own, the thought of his being able to cast a Memory Charm that could affect Severus was as laughable as that of his being an autodidact in Occlumency. Everything noticeable or unusual about the boy, such as his talent with Parseltongue, came from his enemy.

The true answers, of course, remained locked behind a seamless black wall in the back of Severus's mind.

His spying career might be coming to an end rather sooner than he had envisioned.

* * *

Harry, under his Cloak, followed Malfoy calmly into the dungeons, and the time he'd been waiting for finally arrived; the other Slytherins he'd walked with peeled away and left Malfoy alone. The ferret himself paused in front of the blank wall Harry knew held the door to the common room, his face thoughtful. 

_Now. You won't get a better chance._

Harry began to hum beneath his breath. The Siren Song was much easier this time, maybe because he'd successfully done it once, instead of practicing it without a target or learning in theory. Harry could feel his Occlumency extending outwards like a second limb, aiming at Malfoy, weaving memories of the Slytherin boy into the melody the way he'd used memories of Snape before.

A sigh touched his ears. Then Malfoy turned and walked a few steps in his direction, legs unnaturally stiff, but moving more smoothly when Harry thought that he wanted them to do so. His mind hovered in Harry's grasp, too, a second heart, smaller and slicker than the one in his chest.

_I could crush it._

Harry jumped and shivered like a spooked centaur. He didn't like the thought. He had no reason or wish to kill Malfoy. He was only a test subject. Harry knew he would have to perfect the Siren Song before he could use it to call Voldemort, a much stronger Occlumens, but testing it over and over on Snape would be too dangerous.

He didn't want to kill anyone but himself. And Voldemort, but that was the same thing, really.

_I need to think about this, and clear my head. And I know just how to do it, too._

He let Malfoy's mind go with a snap, and whirled out of the alcove he'd stood in. Malfoy collapsed to the floor with a groan. Harry decided he must have the same kind of aftereffect that had felled Snape last night.

_I'm sorry, _he thought. _But I'm only going to hurt you, not kill you, and it'll only last a little while. Then I won't be able to hurt anyone anymore._

He knew that the other students left for Christmas holidays on the twenty-first of December. He thought he could be ready a few days after that, given the amount of practice he would have with the Siren Song and Medea's Draught throughout November and the first three weeks of December.

_I'm dying on Christmas Eve, then?_

_I reckon that's it._

A great peace flooded him. Though what he had to do to restore his perspective was anything but peaceful, it felt—_right_—to know the date of his death. Only that long, and no longer, would he remain in the world to cause suffering, or dodge around Snape, or prolong his payment of the debt he owed Sirius.

_Everything will be all right._

* * *

Severus felt the Siren Song the moment it began. Though it was not directed at him, a sensitive Occlumens could usually feel it; he had been able to do it every time the Dark Lord used the technique in the past. 

He strode swiftly from his office in the direction of the calling, but it stopped moments after it had begun. Severus paused, his heart pounding, and drew his wand. He could not comprehend whom the Dark Lord had been hunting this time, but it would pay for him to approach the area cautiously.

Then he heard a pitiful groan, and recognized the voice.

"Mr. Malfoy?" he asked, stepping around the corner and finding Draco curled into a ball on the ground. Draco whimpered and stared up at him with glazed eyes.

"It _hurts_, Professor Snape," he whinged, massaging his temple.

_Draco was the Siren Song's target. _Severus knelt beside him and took his shoulder. "Can you rise on your own?" he asked. Draco shook his head, then blanched so strongly he looked as if he would pass out. Severus helped him gently to his feet, and took him towards his office, where he had headache potions.

"What happened?" Draco whispered.

"A test," Severus said simply. That was his best guess. Perhaps the person the Dark Lord possessed would test everyone in the castle who was supposed to be loyal to him. Of course, he and Draco were the only ones who had Occlumency, so he would probably choose another form of test for the others. Severus cursed under his breath. That meant he could not be sure of catching them.

With another glance to be sure that Draco was fully distracted by his own pain, Severus whispered, "_Accio_ Invisibility Cloak."

Nothing happened. If Potter was the Dark Lord's tool and had been here, he was long gone.

Severus ground his teeth and continued his guidance of Draco. Strange events clustered around him, and he could make only the faintest of guesses how they might be connected. He _needed_ an insight that would undergird all of them, give him the pattern that made sense, but so far he was blind to it.

* * *

Harry leaned back in his bed and listened to his mates' breathing. They were all asleep, except possibly Neville, and Neville usually fell asleep again in a few minutes if someone woke him up anyway. Harry didn't think they would sense what he was doing. 

For the first time since early August, he lowered the walls that he'd clustered around his scar, around the connection between him and Voldemort.

There was only blankness on the other side. Voldemort still maintained control of his own Occlumency, then.

Harry licked his lips. It took strength and courage, but he had both of them; he couldn't imagine not having them, now that he had only a limited amount of time in which to do everything he wanted. He extended his Occlumency like another limb again, this time trying to slip around the shields and into Voldemort's dreams, or his waking vision.

It felt—slimy. Meeting Snape's Legilimency was uncomfortable, and Malfoy's defenses had been pitiful, but Harry hadn't felt as if he were crawling belly-deeper through a sewer. He grimaced, and envisioned a snake to himself, an exercise that his book recommended. He couldn't just shove forward, not against someone as skilled as Voldemort. He had to slink, be graceful, be quick and wise.

And then there was the shape of a door in front of him, with room under it for him to slip through. Harry couldn't see it, but he could feel it. He imagined easing his way beneath, his imagination and mind compressed into something delicate and unnoticeable. He would just go a short way beyond it, and then—

There was light.

Dim light, Harry saw at once. Voldemort sat on a chair of some kind, and his eyes, through which Harry saw, were fixed on a circle on the floor. The circle was made of some smoking blue liquid that might have been a potion. The steam it shed, though, wasn't thick enough to prevent Harry from making out the wizard who lay in the center of it, chained hand and foot.

"I ask you one more time," Voldemort said, sibilants seeming to glide around every word, even the ones that didn't have an s in them. "Where are the Boltley children?"

The wizard shivered, but didn't answer.

Voldemort gave a slight nod, or so Harry assumed from the way the vision bobbed up and down. "Bella," he said.

A long curtain of black hair shielded Bellatrix Lestrange more than her torn robes did as she stalked forward. Harry felt a wave of hatred, and beat it back. Too many strange emotions would warn Voldemort that someone else was in his mind.

Voldemort did pause for a moment, as if he wondered where the hatred had come from, but then became absorbed in watching his servant again. Bellatrix knelt beside the chained wizard and caressed his face. Where her hand moved, Harry saw, it slit the skin, parting it as easily as the edge of a sharpened knife. The wizard's cheek gaped, and Harry saw red-stained teeth through the mess of his gums.

Bellatrix laughed, and slid down further, and _kissed_. The wizard screamed, but it was a tormented, gurgling sound, as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. When Bellatrix pulled back, Harry saw that his lips were blue-purple, and his hands clawed as if they wanted to rise to his throat. His eyes had gone wide and staring, perhaps mad from the pain of whatever spell his torturer had used.

"Continue," Voldemort breathed. Harry could feel his pleasure, and had to keep his own revulsion down.

Bellatrix continued. Harry forced himself to watch all of it. _This_ was what he was going to stop. The Death Eaters would remain without Voldemort, that was true, but they wouldn't have a strong leader to direct them in Voldemort's absence. And Harry's death would help him pay for the fact that he hadn't stopped this earlier.

There was shredding of limbs, and cracking of bones, and an intricate dance that Bellatrix performed, half like a snake herself, with the wizard's intestines, drawing length after length of them out of the wound in his belly. Voldemort's eyes were sharp enough that Harry didn't miss a detail. He left only when he was relatively sure the wizard was dead, and when his own reactions had grown too strong for him to control.

He made sure to seal the door into Voldemort's mind behind him, even before he raised his own Occlumency shields.

When he got his eyes open, he had to hurry to the loo. Most of what he'd eaten that day came up violently, and Harry was still dry-heaving five minutes later. Panting, he leaned his head on the cool wall and closed his eyes.

_That's what I'm fighting. That's why I can't be allowed to falter, and I can't allow Snape to find out what I'm doing and stop me._

_They're suffering. I hate it. But the suffering won't last much longer, I promise—either the pain I inflict or the pain I permit to happen. I promise. It'll be over very soon._

He had a date now, after all.

Harry sneaked quietly back into his room and listened to the other boys' breathing. Still as steady as ever. He drew the curtains tight around his bed, cast _Lumos_, and began reading the Potions book that would tell him how to make Medea's Draught once more. No use wasting the time, since he was awake anyway.

He would have to practice and become good at brewing the same way he'd become good at Occlumency. His own incompetence couldn't be allowed to stand in his way.

_Nothing can, really._


	9. Maneuvering Dumbledore

I'm glad that people liked the last chapter! To briefly answer a few questions: No, the Horcruxes play no part in this story, as it's mostly AU, and I'm not sure how long this will be, but probably somewhere between 40 and 50 chapters.

_Chapter 9—Maneuvering Dumbledore_

Severus kept his word to himself the next morning. The hour before breakfast found him on the moving staircase up to Albus's office, running over every piece of disturbing evidence in his mind, from his lost memory to the general change in Potter since the term began.

The staircase deposited him inside an office where Albus already waited, sipping tea from a cracked cup and sharing biscuits with Fawkes. The phoenix spread his wings when he saw Severus and gave a trill, but didn't fly across the room to alight on his shoulder, as he had done before. Perhaps he could sense the foul mood the Potions professor was in.

"Severus. What can I do for you?" Albus's smile was as gentle as ever, and his eyes as bright and as inscrutable. Though Severus had chosen coldness and anger as his own means of masking emotions, he would have scoffed at anyone who said it was the only way to shield oneself. He could have chosen and used cheerfulness just as well, and Albus was the living proof.

"It's about Potter," he said bluntly. "I have reason to believe that the Dark Lord is possessing him—or, if not him, some other student in the school."

The brightness in the blue eyes dimmed a bit, but the faint smile remained the same. "Give me your evidence, please," Albus said, sitting back just the way he did when Severus returned to report from Death Eater meetings. Fawkes stretched his neck out, begging, then seemed to decide he'd have to feed himself and snatched a biscuit from the plate.

Severus had to be careful here, because he certainly did not want to tell Albus that he'd manhandled the boy or made him write lines about Black. Albus would not understand. He never _had_ understood that the hatred between Severus and the Marauders was more than the usual schoolboy grudge. He thought everyone could get along if they tried. Severus was not entirely sure that he made an exception to that rule even for the Dark Lord.

He told enough to take the smile away, though, and by the time he finished, Albus was stroking his beard. The stars on his robes sparkled madly, though Severus had never found that an accurate guide to the Headmaster's mood. Fawkes gave a soft croon, almost worried, and looked back and forth between them.

"Of course this is serious," Albus murmured. "Thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention, Severus. I will summon Harry here, and, meanwhile, ask you to watch, just in case Tom _is_ possessing someone else."

The heavy note of hope in his voice made Severus want to snort. _Of course he wants to believe that it's someone else. His precious Harry Potter could never do anything wrong._

"I would like to be present at your meeting with the boy, Headmaster," he said.

Albus's eyes sharpened, and he sat forward with a small smile, this time holding out a biscuit so that Fawkes wouldn't have to stretch. "I'm afraid that would not be wise. I know that you and Harry have had your—differences. I think I'd like to talk to him alone. Merlin knows that I did not talk to him enough last term to make him trust me. It may be time to start paying more attention to him."

Severus kept himself from rolling his eyes, but it was difficult. Albus already gave the boy all the attention he could desire, much more than a spoiled brat like him deserved. Perhaps that was another cause of the boy's swollen head. When the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the greatest wizard of his age and bane of Grindelwald, was falling over himself to give Potter whatever he wanted, why shouldn't he believe he was special?

Severus wondered, as he moodily took his leave, why he was alone in seeing the reflected glory of the Dark Lord, and nothing else, in Potter. Yes, granted, he saw things that other people did not, and he was used to being alone in his perceptions, but must the rest of the world be so persistently blind?

* * *

"Wasn't that brilliant?" Ron was all but bouncing up and down. "She snatched it just in time! She's _brilliant_, Harry!"

Harry had to smile, if only for the sake of his friend's enthusiasm. "She really is," he agreed, looking back to where Ginny, her hair soaked with sweat, was accepting the congratulations of Katie Bell and one of the new Beaters Ron had placed on the team. "She'll make a great Seeker." He took a deep breath. He'd come out to watch the very early practice at Ron's suggestion, and the fresh air and the sharp edge of frost on the grass had done its part to revive him after a sleepless night. This was what he would miss most, he thought. He'd given up any right he had to the company and sympathy of other people, but nothing could quite match the sheer beauty of the world on a morning like this.

Ron stopped bouncing and looked at him seriously. "Not as good as you, though, Harry."

Harry gave a small shrug and smiled at him. "She'll have her mind more on the game than I ever did. I was always distracted by something, remember? The Philosopher's Stone, or the voice I heard in the walls, or believing there was a mad murderer after me." He paused and thought about that. "Well, there's still a mad murderer after me, but it's not the same one." He felt a wave of sadness come over him. _I wish no one had ever believed that about you, Sirius. I wish you could have been free of Azkaban and raised me instead of the Dursleys._

"That's true," Ron said, but his gaze was unwavering, and Harry avoided it. Ron was regarding him too much like a problem in chess right now. "I just want you to know, mate, I can listen if you need an ear."

Harry opened his mouth to answer, and then abruptly the school blurred in his sight and his legs gave out on him. He felt his head hit the ground, and he hissed between his teeth, because a stone pressed against the same spot that Snape had injured on the wall yesterday. But his main concern was raising his Occlumency shields. If this was an attack by Voldemort, he wouldn't let his secrets be discovered so easily.

"Harry? _Harry!_"

Ron's voice was very distant. Harry heard rushing and pounding and roaring in his ears, as if he lay on a seashore. He took a deep breath and managed to sit up. The spinning in his head—which didn't come from pain, but from a carousel that seemed located right behind his eyes—objected to that. Harry had endured worse than that since he decided on suicide, though, and he shoved the dizziness irritably aside.

He found himself pulled against Ron, and the rest of the team was running to catch up with them, shouting. Harry squirmed uncomfortably. He didn't like being hugged like this. It seemed like—it seemed like only Sirius should have done this, and Harry would only earn the right to be hugged again when he'd done his duty.

"What is it, mate? Your scar?" Ron's voice was fiercely private, and Harry felt bad for having to deceive him. But he just could imagine Ron and Hermione's reaction if he did tell them about what he had to do. Hermione would Body-Bind him, and Ron would knock him unconscious, and by the time Harry woke up, he'd be in Dumbledore's office or St. Mungo's or the Burrow, with an adult sitting there to "talk some sense into him." Harry had little hope of being able to make them see that he was the most sensible person at Hogwarts right now, the only one who was trying to make _sure_ Voldemort was defeated.

_Except Snape, I suppose. _And that was an odd thought, and Harry recognized the hazy wandering in his head. He dragged his attention back to the point.

"No," he said, clasping Ron's hand and easing away from him. "I think I just haven't eaten enough, if you can believe that." He snorted. "Didn't eat dinner last night, haven't had breakfast this morning, and—" He hesitated, then shrugged. He didn't remember touching lunch yesterday, or breakfast for that matter. It wasn't as though he _tried_ to skip meals, or wanted to. It just happened, because he could use the time for so many more productive things. He'd have to devote the hours to it, though, because, from the alarmed expression on Ron's face, this made too severe a change.

"We've got to get some food into you!"

Harry started to respond, but someone cleared her throat behind him. Turning, he looked up at Professor McGonagall, who had her eyebrows raised. "Mr. Potter," she said. "Are you quite all right?" An undercurrent of fear coursed through her voice. Harry winced to hear it. That was why he was dying, to prevent people from feeling that.

"I'm all right, ma'am," he said, and pushed himself to his feet, deftly avoiding Ron's hand. "A bit of a tumble. Did you want to see me?"

"The Headmaster wants you." McGonagall peered at him through her glasses. "Of course, if you need to go to Madam Pomfrey, I'm sure he'll be willing to wait."

"That's all right," said Harry, guessing that Snape had probably taken his suspicions to Dumbledore. There would never be a better moment to visit him than right now, when he was visibly weak and sick from lack of food. Dumbledore claimed to love him, so Harry would play on his sympathy. "I can see him, ma'am. Really." He smiled at McGonagall, who nodded slowly and began walking back to the school. Harry followed her.

"Harry!" Ron whispered after him.

"I'll get something from the Great Hall before Charms," Harry offered absently, his mind already springing ahead to what he'd say to Dumbledore. He really didn't want to alienate or antagonize the Headmaster. On the other hand, perhaps he could prepare the ground for the reception of the interview he'd have to give the _Daily Prophet_ in a few weeks.

* * *

"Ah, my dear boy." The Headmaster's eyes were warm. "Please, sit down." The warmth sharpened to a look of concern as Harry let himself fall into the chair. "Are you quite all right?"

Harry coughed, and sighed. "I'm afraid not, sir," he whispered. "I've been feeling sick for the last little while, and, now—" He shrugged and stared at his hands.

Dumbledore sighed. Fawkes gave a little trill. Harry didn't look up at him, even though part of him longed to hear the phoenix song. For all he knew, the bird might have the mystic ability to sense his resolve.

"I'm afraid I must ask you something serious, Harry," Dumbledore said, "and while I hate to add to your burden when you are sick, this is not only serious, but critical to the war effort."

"I'm ready, sir." Harry was vaguely surprised that Dumbledore thought he _wouldn't_ be ready to hear something phrased in that way. What else did he have to be concerned about, now?

"Severus suspects you of being possessed by Voldemort." Dumbledore spoke as gently as he had when talking about the prophecy, last term. "I understand that you may have no memories of this, and for good reason, but I thought I needed to investigate the possibility. Will you let me read your mind, Harry?"

"Of course, sir." Inwardly, Harry felt a soaring triumph. _Of course Snape would suspect something like that. Maybe I don't have to worry about him after all. I could walk about with a sign around my neck stating my plan, and he'd only think it was a plea for attention._

If Dumbledore was surprised by the instant acquiescence, he didn't show it. He leaned forward, and his intent eyes peered into Harry's. Harry pressed his Occlumency shields flat and piled his mind with memories, mostly of his grief for Sirius and the visions he'd had last year of Voldemort. Only a few memories needed to be sheltered—for example, the specifics of Medea's Draught and his meeting with Scrimgeour—and Dumbledore would find his own explanation in the memories Harry showed him.

His Legilimency was much gentler and more refined than Snape's. Harry wondered idly if that was just because he had more practice, or a stronger will, or whether Snape had decided he didn't need gentleness. He paused on each memory, looked at it for a long time, and then continued on. Harry held his mind passive, since that was what Dumbledore would expect, and the closest he could manage now to an impression of someone who didn't know Occlumency at all. That also made it easier to keep some memories static and hidden.

Dumbledore pulled free of Harry's mind long before he came near the buried plans, sitting back and staring at him. His eyes were rimmed with the sadness Harry had last seen the day of Sirius's death.

"I had not realized how much you still grieved."

Harry bowed his head and nodded. Part of him shrieked in disgust; of _course_ he would still mourn, and how in the world could the wisest wizard in Britain not have foreseen that? But another part of him, the same clarity of mind that had pointed out why Sirius's death was his own fault, reminded him that he'd had plenty of chances to confess his grief and ask for help, during the summer and since. If he said nothing, why wouldn't Dumbledore just assume he'd recovered?

_Other people are more preoccupied with themselves. You know that. You've been living off it for the past two months._

"That's it, isn't it, Harry?" Dumbledore asked softly. "Depression is making you act this way?"

Harry nodded, and, although he hadn't yet decided on just what he'd say, the words rose as easily to his lips as if they were planned. "Yes. And—sir, I'm sorry, but that's why I used a Memory Charm on Snape last night. I'd started crying about Sirius, and I went for a walk to calm myself down, and he caught me. I was afraid that he'd taunt me for crying. I—I know I shouldn't have used the _Obliviate_, but—I couldn't bear to listen to what he'd say about Sirius. Sirius _died_. He deserves better than that." He clenched one hand and tried to calm his breathing, as if he were stifling anger and not grief.

"It's still wrong, Harry, you know that." Dumbledore's scolding was worse for the complete understanding in the back of his voice.

"I know, sir," Harry whispered. "I'll apologize to him." He looked up. "Do I have to tell him exactly _why _I took the memory away?"

Dumbledore shook his head away. "I shall inform him that I've talked to you, and read your mind, and found nothing suspicious." He stroked his beard, and Fawkes trilled again, head on one side to examine Harry with a glittering black eye. "Was it your emotions that gave you the power to erase his memory, Harry?"

Harry nodded at once. "Like blowing my aunt up in the summer before my third year, sir." Really, it was amazing how many lies other people gave him. Just play into what was expected of him, and most people—Snape had to be the exception, of course—would be perfectly satisfied.

"Feel free to come and talk to me any time, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I have—many memories of Sirius that I have not shared. And I miss him as well. I would welcome someone else to talk to about him."

Harry smiled. "Thank you, sir." _If Scrimgeour does as he promised and clears Sirius's name, you'll be able to talk with plenty of people about him after I'm dead. _He was glad, for Dumbledore's sake. He rose to his feet. "Can I go now, sir? I haven't had breakfast yet."

Dumbledore chuckled and waved a hand. "Of course! We mustn't keep a growing boy from his meals."

Everything had gone as well as or better than could be expected, and Harry rode down the moving staircase in contented silence.

* * *

Harry knocked on Snape's office door precisely at seven that night. This was his third-to-last detention with Snape, and after that he would work as hard as he could to keep out of the git's way. He needed as much time as he could steal with Medea's Draught in the coming weeks, that was certain. His first attempt to brew a small amount of it this afternoon had been a disaster, resulting in the potion nearly eating through the bottom of his cauldron before he could stop it. That annoyed Harry. The acid in the potion was supposed to eat his liver, not the metal.

He needed to learn how to _read_ instructions. And he had to conquer his impatience, and sit back in silence for hours, if that was what it took. He could do it, but, just as he'd learned with Occlumency during the summer, it meant concentrating in ways usually foreign to him.

"Enter," Snape said.

Harry opened the door, and only then thought how strange it was that some moments had passed between his knock and Snape's calling out permission for him to come in.

He twisted to the side and grabbed for his wand, but he hadn't quite pulled it out of his robe pocket before the Body-Bind froze him. He tilted back and leaned against the door like a statue, edging it shut. Snape stood up from behind his desk, his eyes sharp, and a small vial in his hand.

"I _know_ it is more than your grief that is making you act like this, Potter," he snarled softly. "I intend to find it out."

As he strode forward, the liquid in the vial sloshed. Harry studied it, and saw how clear it was, and experience from last year told him exactly what it must be.

_Veritaserum._


	10. Speaking Truth

Thanks again for the reviews! I am sorry for the cliffhangers, but since I plan on quick updates, I don't think they're as bad as if I waited for months.

_Chapter 10—Speaking Truth_

The thought went off inside Harry's head like a firework.

_I have one chance, maybe._

* * *

Severus felt a grim enjoyment as he watched Potter's terrified eyes. The brat might have fooled the Headmaster—Albus was not stupid, but he would let love soften his brain when he should be asking hard questions—and he might have used a Memory Charm the other day, but he had no chance now.

An odd sound bubbled inside the boy's mouth, knocking against his frozen lips. Severus raised an eyebrow and flicked his wand to loosen Potter's jaw. He needed it loose anyway, since he would have to put the Veritaserum on his tongue.

Potter opened his mouth, and _laughed_.

Severus had thought Potter could not irritate him further. But now his breath was short with rage, and red dimmed the sides of his vision, something that had not happened in years. He didn't care if the laughter was bitter. Potter still found him funny, when he should have been shaking in fear.

"What is so amusing?" he snapped.

"I was just wondering how you'd get away with telling Dumbledore that you used Veritaserum on me," Potter said, his face and eyes both far too bright. Severus tried to persuade himself it was the hectic fever of a cornered animal, not enjoyment. "I kept silence on the lines you forced me to write, after all. I thought cursing you made up the debt. I was willing to let our hatred remain between us. After all, things didn't go so well when the Headmaster intervened last year, did they? But no, you're doing something that will force you to go straight to him." He snorted, and a tremble moved up his face as if he'd tried to shake his head before finding it still frozen. "Brilliant of you, Snape, just _brilliant._"

"Be clear on what you are babbling about, Potter, this _instant._" Sparks dripped from Severus's wand to the floor.

"You didn't tell Dumbledore about the detentions you've served me," Potter said. His voice was no calmer, but a bit slower. "You know he wouldn't like it. He might not punish you, but he would have said something to me about it, and he didn't. And I kept quiet, too. I think it's between _you_ and _me_. I don't want him interfering. I'm not a baby. I can protect myself." He clenched his jaw for a moment, as if hating his immobility. Severus did not speak. "And now you're going to use Veritaserum, which is _illegal_, mind you, and one of us would tell him that sooner or later. I don't know if he would excuse you. Are you sure of that? So smart of you, Snape, to do something illegal when you're already doing things that would make the Ministry imprison you." He had the nerve to flick his eyes at Severus's left arm.

Severus clenched his teeth, doubt striking him for the first time since he'd decided to use the truth potion on Potter. He had believed that Albus would excuse his forcing Potter to take it if he found evidence of the Dark Lord's possession.

But if Albus was correct, and Potter's grand secret was depression…

He still believed Albus would not turn him in to the Ministry. On the other hand, part of the unspoken trust that kept Severus serving as Potions master in Hogwarts was that he would not harm his students purposefully.

And his usefulness as a spy was ending. Albus might reconsider his options. While he had given him sanctuary, Severus had never been under the illusion that Albus cared for him as he cared for Potter.

The boy was quiet, now, watching him. Severus's eyes narrowed. "Why did you not complain about the detentions?"

"I told you," Potter said, sounding weary now. "I thought I could keep it between us. And the Memory Charm made up for what you'd done, as far as I was concerned. But if you use the Veritaserum—"

"I could _Obliviate _you, Potter."

"And you really think I wouldn't notice the memory missing?" Potter snarled at him. "You're even stupider than I thought."

Severus wanted to say that Potter would notice nothing, but the problem was, he couldn't be entirely sure. He'd never seen the effects of a Memory Charm on the boy, to know how he reacted to them. And given that Potter _did_ have the strength of will and the magical power to Memory Charm _him_, the chances that he might be immune to it were higher than normal.

Severus had not thought it through. He had simply assumed that Potter was possessed by the Dark Lord and lying to hide it, and if he discovered such a thing, Albus would not care whether he procured the information illegally or not. But if he came out with a different truth, the Headmaster would not be nearly so willing to overlook his activities. And Severus knew no sure way to threaten or bribe Potter into keeping quiet. As with the rest of this, he _might_ win out, but he would be taking an enormous gamble for an equally enormous potential fall.

He had no one to blame for this but himself and his own lack of foresight. Of course, he had never anticipated that the boy would keep quiet about the detentions. It wasn't something Severus would have done.

He took a step back and placed the vial of Veritaserum on the desk behind him. Potter breathed quietly, watching him, and seemed ready to be released from the Body-Bind.

Severus was not ready. "I still have questions for you, Potter," he said.

The boy stared at him, then gave an aborted movement that might have been a shrug. "All right, sir."

"Why did you seem to have Occlumency on Monday?"

Potter's eyes fell. "The charm," he said in a small voice. "And I—I've been trying to train myself." He cringed.

Severus gave him reason to. A rich laugh rolled up his throat despite himself. "You thought you would make progress that way?" he asked incredulously. "When you couldn't even learn from _me_ last year?"

"I thought—" The Body-Bind was loosening, and Severus didn't try to renew it. The boy's hands slowly closed into trembling fists. "I thought I should learn it because Sirius would have wanted me to," he whispered.

"And what kind of progress have you made, Potter?" Severus asked, almost willing to forgive the insults the boy had cast at him in the last little while. This was too good. That the brat should have learned the usefulness of his lessons too late, and been left to flounder alone in one of the most difficult arts to tutor oneself in, and one he had no natural aptitude for! It was almost as good as if Potter had set up his own private Potions class to teach himself brewing.

"Not much." Potter's voice was dull. "I don't have the visions any more, but I think that's Voldemort—"

Severus waved a hand sharply to cut the boy off. "Of course it is," he said. "The Dark Lord is a _master_ Legilimens. He could end the connection to your mind at any time that he wished."

Potter just kept his unhappy eyes on the floor, chewing his lip.

"And why do you want to learn Occlumency now, after disdaining it all last year?" Severus inquired. Grief for Black couldn't be the only reason. If anything, that grief should have made Potter dedicate himself to the death of Bellatrix Lestrange, or to defeating the Dark Lord once and for all.

Potter swallowed, and lifted his eyes. His emotions were all there, burning, at the surface, so clear that Severus needed neither Legilimency nor Veritaserum to read them.

"I wanted to learn it," Potter whispered. "More than that, though, I wanted to die."

Severus would have tried to contain his emotions if one of his Slytherins had made such a melodramatic statement, but with Potter, it was utterly impossible. He laughed again, and Potter gave one massive flinch; the Body-Bind had now loosened so that he could almost move away from the door.

"Of course you did." Severus flicked his fingers. "All adolescents go through that stage, Potter, when they think their griefs the most important troubles in the world, and yearn for what they imagine will be a chance to make _everyone_ around them understand. I suppose you imagined your funeral, with your friends sobbing and all the people in Hogwarts sorry they never understood your _real_ worth? I suppose you imagined that I would mourn when I thought of you?"

Potter said nothing, but Severus could make out tears rimming his averted eyes.

"Your thoughts are unutterably selfish and big-headed, as usual." Severus was nearly satisfied now. Many things made sense. The charm had been the reason for Potter's Occlumency, and his grief over Black the reason for the rest, just as Albus had said. That still left uncertain the mystery of who had used the Siren Song in the school, but Severus could search. It might even be Draco, stupid though the boy would have been to turn the technique on himself.

_Or cunning, trying to make sure you did not suspect him._

Severus put the possibility aside to investigate later, and leaned forward to focus on Potter. "You cannot die until you kill the Dark Lord," he said, and Potter started. "Yes. I am aware of the circumstances of your ridiculous destiny." Severus grimaced. He did not _like_ thinking that the whole of their world rested on someone as fragile—in every possible bad sense of that word—and conceited as Potter, but destiny had not consulted him when she made the choice. "Did you really think that killing yourself would be a good idea, when you condemn the rest of the world to darkness?"

"I thought—I thought—"

"You did not think at all, as is usual." Severus sat back, waved his wand, and released the lingering effects of the Body-Bind. "You will scrub cauldrons tonight, Potter. If you use the slightest trace of magic, I will know. And you will return at eight in the morning to do the same thing. Do you understand?"

Potter gave a submissive nod. His face, when Severus could glimpse it, was sufficiently shattered. He made no remarks about Heads of House needing to attend the Quidditch games, but went at once to the stack of cauldrons Severus had placed in one corner. They'd been meant to justify the detention if anyone else looked in, at first, since he intended to question Potter under Veritaserum, but there was no reason to waste them, or the particularly thick purple goo that coated them, residue of the efforts of his fourth-years.

Severus sneered at the boy's back. _Everyone strives to see that he's living a good life, or dies to ensure it, and still, _still, _he dares think such things. James was not a patch on his son for selfishness._

* * *

Harry scrubbed at the cauldron in his right hand hard enough that a patch of crusted goo loosened and flew off, hitting the far wall. His breath was too quick. Colors kept dancing at the edges of his eyes, his head pounded, and he felt the strong urge to lie down.

But he'd done it. He'd made Snape back off enough that the man no longer seemed to suspect him of anything. And when he'd lost control while talking about Sirius, and slipped into an open confession of what he planned to do, Snape had thought he was exaggerating, or was stupid and thoughtless.

The idea that Harry might intend to die and take Voldemort with him had never once occurred to the greasy git.

Harry didn't understand the tears that still haunted his eyes. It was probably just suppressed grief, but sometimes, when he swallowed, the lump that he forced down his throat felt like joy.

He was free now. He was really free. His fooling of Ron and Hermione had gone well from the beginning, and now he'd passed the two greatest obstacles, Dumbledore and Snape. Both were satisfied and would leave him alone, one from tenderness, the other from refusal to take him seriously.

There was no one to stand in his way.

Harry felt nameless gratitude as he scrubbed and scrubbed, his hands and his mind moving independently of each other. This was what he had wanted from the beginning. Let other people look away and enjoy their own lives. He'd go on.

Of course, if he thought about it for too long he would probably feel sorry for himself, but he'd had his chance at a happy, normal life, with Sirius. Since he'd been the one to waste and destroy that chance, it was only reasonable that he shouldn't have any others. His death would pay for his mistake, just as Snape's uninterest in him now would pay for the torture he'd forced Harry through earlier in the week.

There was really no reason to mourn. He'd done what he had to. He'd remained dedicated to his purpose in the face of extreme provocation, and passed what he thought was the last test.

He scrubbed cauldrons almost cheerfully until Snape barked at him to go, and then ran up to the abandoned classroom on the sixth floor where he'd placed his ingredients for the Medea's Draught, under strong locking and Disillusionment Charms. He sat down and read the instructions for the potion again, forcing himself to be absolutely calm. This time, he really _absorbed_ that he needed to stir the potion after he put the belladonna leaves in, not before, and that the potion needed three pinches of moondust, no more, no less. It didn't matter how big the pinches were; the number was the magic, not the amount.

Harry blinked. It felt as if insights were pouring into him. He wondered if that was specific to this potion, if he understood it because he'd taken the time to understand it, or whether he'd be able to brew most potions that had puzzled him now.

Then he laughed. Why would he ever need to brew another potion? This was the last he'd make. Of course he'd get it right, since he'd never have to do it again.

Visions of the future made no sense for him anymore.

He filled the cauldron with water with a flick of his wand, and then set to work, amusing himself the while with what Snape would say if he caught him. _Think you can brew a potion, Potter? You'll probably poison yourself!_

_That's the idea, Snape, _his mental self retaliated, and he smiled as he glanced at the instructions.


	11. Brewing Medea's Draught

Thanks again for the reviews! What Snape does as far as Harry goes is visible in the next chapters, though not immediately in this one (since he has other problems).

A note: I've included several features of the legend of Medea here, though not nearly all of them, since—like all Greek myths—it has so many variations, and characters' names also vary in some of them.

_Chapter 11—Brewing Medea's Draught_

Harry carefully tipped a quarter of the vial of mercury into the cauldron, and then leaped back out of range of the fumes the book had said that step would produce. Every other time he'd done this, the potion had promptly thickened and started eating through the bottom of the cauldron. The book hadn't said why, but Harry thought he'd probably added too much mercury.

This time, nothing happened, other than the potion's color shifting very slightly until it reached the shade of a ripe apple. Harry smiled and let himself bask in his success for a moment before he examined the book for the next step.

_More acid._

Harry carefully picked up the foaming vial of golden liquid and measured out three drops on the cork as best he could; it wasn't an ingredient, like blood or water, where he could have counted the drops out onto his skin. He placed them in a triangle pattern around the surface of the liquid, as the book also instructed, and then once again stepped hastily back.

The potion sighed, like the brush of a silky robe along a corridor, and then settled. Harry nodded. He still had five steps to get through before he could start stirring the cauldron again and preparing the potion for storage, and he would probably falter on one of them. Even if he didn't, the book warned against trusting the first vial of Medea's Draught too completely. There were two results that looked superficially like an effective poison, but in one case it was stagnant and in another it killed too quickly. Harry would have to examine the thickness and the color carefully before he could be sure it was what he wanted.

That didn't matter. That was all right. He still had several weeks, and he had done much better with the brewing so far than he'd suspected he would. It was a pity he couldn't test it beforehand, but anything that drank it would die.

And in a highly nasty way, which was one of the reasons Harry had chosen the poison. The acidic ingredients of the potion would attack his liver, spleen, and other internal organs, breaking them down the way that Medea had broken down the lives of her victims. But they would do it slowly enough that Harry could reel Voldemort in like a fish first.

Harry smiled and reached for the belladonna leaves.

* * *

Rufus coughed and shook his head. So much dust floated around this little-used section of the Ministry archives, clogging his lungs and covering his cloak, that he felt as though he'd never be clean again. He scrubbed at his gritty eyes with one fist, and then scanned the shelves.

The records claimed that the papers pertaining to Potter's guardianship had last been seen here. Surprisingly, or coincidentally—though, by this point, Rufus would only have thought it was a surprise or a coincidence if he weren't dealing with Dumbledore—the paperwork from the non-trial of Sirius Black had last been seen in the same place. The only way Rufus expected to find them was close, detailed work, staring at every box or folder until it revealed its secrets to him. Sending someone else was out of the question, both because he had to worry about Dumbledore's spies in the Ministry now and because someone with the best of intentions would probably grow impatient and not find what he wanted.

Finally, a box caught his eye. It had a name on it that Rufus vaguely recognized as belonging to a criminal sent to Azkaban about ten years ago, but beneath that name had once been another. He peered closely, tracing the curve of the letters with a finger when he wasn't sure, and then nodded. _Potter._

He pulled the box out of place, and was rewarded with an even more enormous puff of dust for his troubles.

Rufus felt a tremble of discomfort when he saw the books, envelopes, scrolls, and pieces of individual parchment that filled the box. He would have to look into this—and on his own time, as the duties of the Ministry and the pressure to "do something" about You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters grew worse every day. And even someone who didn't serve Dumbledore might not be able to keep a silent tongue when he examined some of what Rufus fully expected to find in this box.

As he pulled back, his bad leg buckled a bit, and the precious burden shifted dangerously. Rufus had to drop into a half-crouch to retrieve his balance. When he looked down, he caught his breath. The cascade of loose papers on the top had shifted enough for him to make out what looked like the edge of a silver basin.

_A Pensieve._

Perhaps he wouldn't have to spend as much time searching for the necessary information as he'd thought he would.

* * *

The potion had taken the belladonna well this time. Harry had to grimace and shake his head when he thought about his confidence a week ago. No matter how hard he tried to rationalize his speed, and assure himself he still had time to recover from mistakes, it was intolerable that his own impatience had made the potion convulse and explode in poisonous slop all over the room. He'd managed to raise a Shield Charm that protected him from the worst of it, but he'd had to spend a lot of time cleaning up and making sure that he hadn't swallowed any of it.

He'd swallow it eventually, of course. But not until the moment he chose. The point of the exercise wasn't to kill himself. It was to kill himself and get rid of Voldemort at the same time. If he just died, then he would deserve the selfish label that Snape had slapped on him. Of course he couldn't die and just leave everyone else in danger.

Making sure his hands moved slowly this time, he placed the belladonna leaves in the cauldron, and waited for the sign that the potion was ready for more—the small puff of steam upwards—instead of tossing everything in because he was impatient. He _was_ impatient, of course, but if he had to learn patience the way he'd learned Occlumency, then he would. It was one of his hardest lessons. He could feel his skin itching and his eyes watering with the need to do something. That was part of why he usually just dashed ahead and left practical matters to take care of themselves, he thought. Who could _think_, who could _wait_, with someone in as much danger as other people might be if he didn't protect them?

And he'd thought it was his responsibility to fight Voldemort, too. But he hadn't fulfilled the responsibility effectively so far.

Now he would.

The belladonna had settled into the cauldron. Harry relaxed, and turned to read the next part of the recipe three times over, each time forcing his eyes to really pause on and see the words, not just skim over them.

This was the part of the brewing that added a magical impulse to the Draught. When the breaking down of the internal organs began to speed up, the victim's body burst into flames, to hold back anyone who might try to get near and rescue them. That imitated the flames that came from the poisoned gown Medea had sent Glauce, the princess who'd dared to marry her husband Jason. The gown had shone, in the legend, and Glauce hadn't been able to resist putting it on, even though everyone else had warned her about the danger of trusting Medea. She'd been simultaneously poisoned and burned to death, and when her father had rushed to rescue her, the flames had caught and destroyed him, too.

This was part of the reason there was no antivenin anyone could brew for the Draught. And, just in case the worst happened and anyone came upon him after he'd consumed the poison and before it could kill him, Harry wanted to be sure they'd hesitate long enough.

* * *

Severus snarled under his breath. He'd spent part of the evening tutoring Draco in magic, as usual, and part of the evening trying to find out if the boy had been responsible for the Siren Songs two weeks ago. Given his teaching, his duties as a spy, and his efforts to create a counter-potion for the Veritaserum, this was the first chance he'd had to speak to the boy for an extended period of time.

Unfortunately, he'd betrayed his interest—perhaps because he'd brought up Occlumency one too many times—and now Draco was playing coy with him, returning cryptic non-answers to his questions. Severus had forgotten that the boy was a Slytherin and, after this summer, alert enough to realize that his position was a matter of life and death. Words that would have dragged the answer out of a younger Draco without a pause made this one look away and think too hard, trying to decide what his professor wanted.

_I am delighted he is showing intelligence at last, _Severus thought, the last time he asked a question about Draco's progress in his studies and received a bland description of the last few spells the boy had studied under him in return. _I could have wished he would choose to show it tomorrow._

"Professor?" Draco said, when they had taken a short pause in their dueling, and Severus was wondering whether compliments were too obvious a course to take.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" Severus spun his wand, which made Draco look at it instead of his face, a useful distraction just now.

"Do you think—" Draco paused a long moment, then continued, "Do you think I have it in me to be one of the best of his Death Eaters? _Really_?"

_Ah. _So that was how the boy had taken the queries about his skills, as compliments that Severus refused to give outright. That was much less disastrous than other motives he could have attributed to his teacher. Severus had feared the boy would see that he was _worried_ over the source of the Siren Songs, and respond the way one Slytherin always did to a sign of weakness or worry in another.

And that realization put Severus back in control of the game, and able to strike at Draco's weakness himself. He gave the boy a narrow smile. "Would you call me one of the best of his Death Eaters, Draco?"

Draco hesitated.

"Or your father?" Severus made the question completely bland, and had the pleasure of seeing Draco's hands tighten into white-knuckled fists in response. He knew that, according to the reckoning of other Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy was a fool for his failure, but Draco's family pride and love for his father wouldn't let him speak against Lucius.

"I wasn't necessarily asking for a _model_, sir," Draco snapped. "I was just asking your honest opinion of my skills."

And that moved Severus even more firmly into the dominant position. He had to swallow his amusement. Draco might have more skill in verbal maneuvering than he had in past years, but when he lost control of his emotions, he fell right back into the old traps that he should have escaped by now.

"You are not yet skilled enough to disarm me," Severus said. "By that measure, no, Mr. Malfoy, you do not."

Draco narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring. Severus knew the question he wanted to ask: how many of the other Death Eaters could actually disarm his teacher? But to ask it would be to betray a shade too much eagerness. A student might want to know his progress, understandably enough. But only a child constantly demanded comparisons of himself to others so that he could know _their_ skills. An adult was expected to observe and understand, or pick up gossip, sift through it, and separate the truth from the rumor and the envy.

Draco glanced up for one moment more, caught between the understanding that he must ask no more and the resentment that it should be so, and Severus was able to snatch a perfect glimpse between his Occlumency shields.

His student was incapable of performing the Siren Song.

Severus kept from exhaling in frustration, but it was a hard thing. He was sure that Albus would not run about amusing himself at the students' expense. But, besides himself and Draco, Albus was the only Occlumens in the school—

_No. Wait._

Severus tilted his head to dismiss Draco, and, when he was alone, spun and cast a curse at the far side of the room, destroying a light wooden chair he kept there for that express purpose. Splinters exploded from it and flew across the office, one scoring a light cut near his eye. Severus snarled under his breath and cast both the necessary healing spell and the _Reparo_ for the chair in the same moment.

Potter was trying to train himself in Occlumency. That did not mean he had _succeeded,_ but Severus knew he had _tried_, and the Siren Songs had been used on him and Draco—two people Potter would have no compunctions against injuring.

Severus had assumed the Dark Lord was possessing him. But what if that wasn't true? What if the boy had, somehow, acquired the strength to tug on the mind of another Occlumens?

His every memory of the boy revolted against the knowledge. Potter was incapable of the focused concentration necessary for Occlumency. Severus had seen that through five years of teaching Potions, an art very similar to Occlumency in some ways. And he had not tried in their lessons last year, when the threat of the Dark Lord invading his mind had made no impact. What would have changed his reluctance to determination? What could have been a greater impetus to his studying than losing the integrity of his own mind?

_The loss of Black. Of course._

Severus bared his teeth. If he had had Potter in front of him, he would have hexed him then and there.

But that was mostly to keep from hexing himself. He had been a fool, and every time that happened, he promised that he would not be one again, and if anyone in the world was capable of keeping that promise, it should have been him.

His instincts went deeper than his memories, and they sought the simplest and most persuasive explanation, and that was that Potter had decided to learn Occlumency at last, in memory of Black, and then decided to use it as a weapon against the Slytherins he despised. He must have known it would cause them immense headaches. He had not counted on being found out.

_Well, now he will be._

If the boy was truly an Occlumens, he needed training in any case. Ministry laws prohibited learning the art except under an experienced teacher. In those rare cases where a person managed to learn Occlumency spontaneously, on his own, he needed guidance to tame his wild talent so it wouldn't hurt him or others. Severus doubted Potter was a wild talent, but either way, he had an excuse to interfere.

There was also a bit of curiosity beneath the rage, which wondered how long Potter had been learning and thought, from Severus's memory of the sleek Occlumency walls in Potter's mind a few weeks ago, that he must be very good indeed. But he would never show that curiosity or that appreciation.

"_Point Me_ Harry Potter," he snapped to his wand.

* * *

Harry sighed and corked the vial of Medea's Draught in his hand. It had finally worked. Two weeks devoted to little else but brewing had paid off, and while he regretted the loss of time to practice his Occlumency, he'd thought he should secure the poison that would kill him first.

In the final stages, the book said, Medea's Draught broke the body down completely, the way that she had encouraged the daughters of King Pelias to cut up their father's body and throw it into a cauldron, under the idea that this would bring him back to life and make him young again. Of course, it had simply killed him, and when Harry's chest split down the middle and his limbs parted from each other as if he were being drawn and quartered, the same thing would happen to him.

Harry silently thanked the person who'd invented Medea's Draught. One method of killing him might not have been enough, but the other two surely would be.

He'd just put the vial in his robe pocket when a loud wail sounded in his ears. Harry jumped, and then turned to stare at the door. It was the alarm spell he'd cast to tell him when someone drew near the room where he brewed the Draught. Since this corridor was so far from the rest of the castle, it was rarely triggered.

Now, though, someone tested the locking spell he'd put up, and a voice said, "Open this door, Potter, _now._"

_Shit. Snape._

Harry whirled to face the cauldron and his ingredients.


	12. What's In Front of Him

Thank you so much for all the reviews! As for the contest, well, let's just say it's not quite over yet. Snape is paying much more attention, but not all of Harry's cleverness has deserted him.

_Chapter 12—What's In Front of Him_

Harry knew there was no time to hide the fact that he'd been brewing, nor what potion he'd chosen. He thought of burning the ingredients, but their smell would probably still give them away to Snape—and anyway, the fumes from the burning might be dangerous. Harry had no interest in killing Snape, or himself before Christmas Eve.

That left hiding the fact that he'd completed the Medea's Draught. Snape would know he'd tried to brew the potion. He had no reason to think that Harry's skill was great enough to let him succeed.

Harry flicked his wand, trying to ignore the sensation of his complicated locking charms dissolving, and Vanished the liquid still in his cauldron. Then he pulled the corked vial out of his pocket, wrapped it in his Invisibility Cloak, which he'd used to sneak to this room in the first place, and bundled it into a corner.

Just in time. The charms dissolved completely, and Harry turned to face the door as Snape came striding through.

* * *

Severus did not know why he was so surprised at the layered locking charms on the door; layering was an effect taught in fifth-year Charms, after all, in anticipation of the O.W.L.'s. Perhaps it was only because he had long since stopped expecting Potter to be good at anything but getting into trouble.

And then he reminded himself of the Occlumency, and shook his head grimly. _That view of the boy is outdated now. I must be careful when I watch him, to ensure that emotion does not blind me to what is in front of me, as it has so far._

The last of the charms melted, and Severus thrust the door open. Potter stood next to a cauldron, staring at him, eyes wide as an owl's. Severus sniffed, and the scents of belladonna and sweet's-acid came to him.

"_Potter_," he said, voice dangerously low.

The boy only backed a step away and went on watching him. Had he come in here with his old view of Potter firmly in place, Severus would have thought he was paralyzed with fear. But he doubted that now. Potter was controlling his reactions in an effort to give nothing away.

"Why are you brewing Medea's Draught?" he continued, briefly meeting the boy's gaze. Yes, there were the Occlumency walls. Potter tried to lower them in the next moment, to pretend his mind was normal, but Severus had seen them.

"Do not play games with me, boy," he said, and enjoyed the flash of panic that crossed Potter's face at that. "I know you are an Occlumens."

Potter clenched one hand into a fist, but his stare remained cold, without the hot anger that would have flooded it last year. "I was brewing the Draught because I want to use it to kill Voldemort," he said. "_Sir._ And I told you, I've been trying to train myself in Occlumency, but I didn't—"

Severus cut him off mercilessly. Time to show the boy that he was trapped, with no getting out of it. "Your Occlumency is your own, Potter, and not due to a charm. And it is quite advanced. Or did you suppose I would not figure it out after you used the Siren Song on me?"

The boy stiffened, and for a moment his hands were quite still. Then he said, "I'm surprised you can admit anything that's a compliment to my skills. _Sir._"

Severus gave the preparations around the cauldron a critical glance. The boy hadn't even laid out the ingredients in the right order for brewing a poison of this caliber. He would want them near enough to hand that he could add them when necessary, yet far enough away that he could save himself from the effects of the volatile potion. Whatever Potter had managed to accomplish as an Occlumens, he was not a master brewer.

But he had tried to be one.

Severus bit back the snide comment that it was a pity Black could die only once, if this was the kind of revolution of personality his death produced in the Boy-Who-Lived. "I know you have changed, Potter," he said, turning around and meeting him eye-to-eye again. This time, Potter kept his Occlumency walls up. Severus inclined his head in the small acknowledgment that he sometimes used with Albus, when they had been trying to pry information from one another but both had their minds too well-guarded to let anything pass the shields. "I know your study has finally produced results. And I know something you may not. Every student who learns Occlumency has to have a guardian. Someone who watches over his use of the art, that he may not harm himself or others." Severus felt a faint smile pull at his lips, given the boy's thunderstruck expression. "That he does not, for example, give others a massive headache with the Siren Song."

* * *

Harry felt a momentary flash of irritation so intense it was almost enough to make him attack Snape. He didn't _want_ this! No matter how many preparations he made for the only duty left to him, it seemed that something else popped up and dragged him back towards the world of the living.

_I don't belong there any more. And now Snape wants to talk to me about my future._ Harry had to bite his lips against nerveless laughter.

Still, so far Snape had given no sign of knowing that Harry wanted to commit suicide. That meant that Harry could handle this small distraction in a small way. He gave a half-shrug with one shoulder and nodded. "All right. I'll find one."

Snape sneered at him. Harry felt relieved. The notion of his teacher speaking to him with respect was too foreign to be tolerated. "And do you really think the Headmaster has the time to spare for a mentoring relationship as intense as this one usually becomes, Potter?"

"I wasn't planning to _ask_ him, sir," Harry pointed out, enjoying the way the sneer grew more pronounced. "I do have someone—a friend—who'll be able to put me in contact with an Occlumency teacher." When he explained the circumstances to Scrimgeour, Harry thought he would be more than ready to help. Snape was a former Death Eater in the Minister's eyes, not someone whose opinion Scrimgeour was likely to trust over Harry's. And Harry was about to go public with his support of the Ministry in the _Daily Prophet_ interview in any case, so letting Snape and Dumbledore know about his search for an Occlumency teacher at the same time wasn't a problem.

Snape laughed. Harry backed up a pace and touched his wand. That was the nasty laugh Snape uttered whenever he thought he'd won. "And what makes you think I will _let_ you seek another teacher than myself, Potter?"

_Did he sniff the mercury? _Harry folded his arms. "Because you hate me and I hate you? _Sir_."

Snape regarded him in silence for a moment. Harry frowned. He had an odd expression in his eyes.

* * *

It was true that, a few days ago, the idea of tutoring Potter like this would have been repugnant to him. But, of course, he'd believed the boy talentless then, no more capable of learning Occlumency than he was of flying to the sun.

And, since the beginning of the term, he _had_ wanted to talk to someone in the same impossible position he was in, caught between Dark and Light, walking a thin path that no one else understood. Potter was. He had tried to brew a poison that would have revolted him under ordinary circumstances, so determined was he to get rid of the Dark Lord. And he had learned Occlumency, an art he had strong reasons to hate, for no better reason than honoring Black and taking revenge on his enemies.

Severus also wanted a student who was interested in the arts he taught for their own sake. Draco was not, despite his natural grace at Potions; he never expected to make his living at it, so he had no reason to improve his gift, and his Occlumency was pitiful. Granger was good at Potions, but in the same way she was good at everything, as one subject among others, and Severus doubted she would pursue it when she had left Hogwarts.

Potter, on the other hand, had managed to learn Occlumency quite competently on his own, and he had a reason to want to be better at Potions than he was. And he had earned an E on his O.W.L.'s. That was not good enough to enter Severus's sixth-year class, but it was very far from entirely hopeless.

The Potter of last year, he would have rejected, however talented he was. But this boy was—different. The more he thought about it, the more Severus was certain that Potter had maneuvered him, and others around him, since he returned from the summer holidays. Certainly he had no other reason to want to stir Severus's emotions up so often, or not betray the depth of his obsession with Black's death to Albus, or do things such as quit the Quidditch team, a move that stunned Severus when he heard of it.

Potter had hidden his intelligence as long as he could, and he had developed skills only in response to a great crisis, not because the temptation of being good on its own was enough to lure him. But that hardly mattered. Now that Severus knew he _was_ capable of this, he intended to push the boy. Potter could do it, so he would. Some of these skills would be useful in helping to defeat the Dark Lord. Albus would probably even approve the guardianship Severus intended to claim, since, while he had acknowledged the mistake of the Occlumency lessons last year, he couldn't quite help wanting two of his "favored children" to like each other.

And, by the time the Dark Lord died, Severus intended to have inculcated enough interest that Potter would want to pursue the arts Severus taught as his future course—Occlumency, if not Potions. The boy was praise-starved, as almost all teenagers were. He lacked a proper guardian figure since the death of Black, and he did not completely trust the Headmaster. Severus was certain it would not take much to fulfill that role for him.

And he would take some pleasure in maneuvering Potter as Potter had maneuvered him.

* * *

"Sir?" Harry pressed. He _really _didn't like the way Snape was looking at him now, as if he were some pet to be trained. _He can't want to teach me. I hurt him with the Siren Song, and he hates me. I hope he hasn't forgotten that._ "What's wrong with seeking a teacher outside the school?"

Snape shook his head and seemed to snap back to himself. "For one thing," he said, "how could you be sure that such a teacher would not talk about your studying Occlumency to the press? And from there it might leak back to the Dark Lord—if your teacher was not a Death Eater himself, which, considering your luck, is extremely likely to happen. And there is a small fact you have forgotten."

Harry remained silent, refusing to be baited.

Snape flicked a glance at the Medea's Draught ingredients and the cauldron. "You were trying to brew a highly illegal poison without adult supervision," he murmured, voice almost neutral. "Such a thing indicates desperation at best—Dark behavior at worst. Even the Headmaster would frown on what you intended to do here. And you know it." He turned back and looked at Harry with intense eyes. "I intend to show you how to do better with potions, since you are right; you _will_ need such knowledge to fight the Dark Lord. But if you seek another teacher for Occlumency, I see no reason not to release this knowledge. Your future teacher should know exactly what kind of pupil he would be taking on, after all."

_Trapped._

For the first time since he'd come back for summer term, Harry couldn't think of a thing to do or say. He had barely fooled Dumbledore once with the lie about Snape taunting Sirius, and so he doubted that a second Memory Charm would be accepted. And there was no way he could destroy every scrap of evidence that he'd been trying to brew Medea's Draught.

He'd counted, all the while, on Snape's hatred remaining intact. Even if the man had figured out what he was doing, Harry had been certain he'd confiscate the ingredients for the potion and assign him to detention for the rest of the year. After all, why wouldn't he be angry at Harry's maneuvering him?

Snape laughed. "If you could see the expression of frustration on your face, Potter!" He lowered his voice and leaned forward. Harry wanted to take a step away, but those dark eyes seemed to pierce him.

"This is not the end of the world. I promise that we shall get on much better than before." He extended one finger to point at Harry. "After all, you have a brain, and you have proved it. So long as you do not try to hide it again, I see no reason to treat you as stupid."

_Damn it!_ Harry glared harder than ever. So much would have been easier if Snape had just gone on believing he was stupid. And why not? Stupid people did stupid things. Snape could have come up with an explanation for any amount of Harry's behavior as long as he believed in that stupidity. He would also lack foresight, and a means of evaluating the consequences of his actions, and any number of traits that Snape cherished in himself and other people he thought were brilliant. Now, he would be watching Harry more closely, and Harry hated the idea that any attempt to fool the man was doubly likely to fail.

"You know, sir," he said, in one final attempt to recover what he saw slipping away from him, "I only learned Occlumency and tried to brew this potion because of Sirius. That doesn't mean I'm _actually_ smart, or good at these things. It was determination that made me do this, not talent. You said yourself last year that I wasn't actually naturally good at Occlumency."

Snape laughed again, but this time, it was softer. "How long have you been studying Occlumency, Potter?"

Harry contemplated lying, but the more he acted as if he had something to hide, the more Snape would press. And, if worst came to worst, Snape could always ask Hermione, and she'd reveal that she sent the Occlumency book to Harry for his birthday. "Since July thirty-first, sir," he said.

Snape smiled, and Harry had to look away; the smile was so full of gloating that he was afraid he would punch Snape if he had to keep on looking at it. "Then determination _can_ substitute for talent," he said. "You have achieved things that people who study Occlumency for years have not." He paused, as if watching the effect of his words on Harry, but Harry only snorted. Did the great git think that Harry would believe _any_ compliment he gave? "Maintain the same level of dedication, as I will see that you do, and this study will be comfortable for both of us."

Harry didn't respond. Every habit of thought he'd learned since the summer revolted at this. Snape was supposed to ignore Harry and go on with his life like everyone else. The substance of his plans had to remain secret. And his Occlumency had to improve on its own, without training.

"Have you not thought this through?" Snape asked softly. "I can help you with the Siren Song and other techniques you will not have thought of, Potter."

And, just like that, Harry's whole perspective on the issue changed.

* * *

Potter's face relaxed, and he looked at Severus with something more than hatred. Severus restrained a smirk. The boy hadn't thought of actually being helped, had he, or having license to practice dangerous, hurtful things under a teacher's watchful eye? Well, now he would have that permission.

He would be obedient to the pace and program of study that Severus set, of course, and that was another thing that made intriguing an idea that would have revolted Severus yesterday: the thought of having control over Potter. The boy had changed enormously, but he was still the son of an old enemy. Severus had lost most of his authority over Potter when the boy refused to earn a high enough mark to enter Potions. Now, he would have part of it back again.

And he looked forward to pushing and pushing Potter for the last grains of his effort and intelligence. No doubt, the boy had bottoms to his dedication, but Severus doubted he had discovered them yet. This much Occlumency in three and a half months was beyond impressive.

"All right, Professor," Potter said, and bowed his head.

Severus was under no illusion that he'd given up, but that only made the next challenge something to be looked forward to, instead of resented. And now it was time for a demonstration of their respective positions.

His eyes on Potter, he summoned, one by one, all the ingredients for Medea's Draught and tucked them carefully away in his pockets. Potter jumped as a cluster of belladonna leaves shot out of his pocket. He blinked, then looked resigned.

"You will come to see me in two days' time, after lunch," he added as he prepared to leave the room. "Do not be late, or I will come searching for you."

With a mixture of gratitude and resentment in his eyes that was no doubt confusing for him, Potter nodded.

Severus left the room, and suppressed the smile that wanted to creep across his face. Yes, he had a fellow manipulator and the son of a Marauder under very firm control now, and he had a student whom he at least knew could be intelligent and persistent. But that was no reason to grin like a fool.

He had won.

* * *

_I won._

Harry couldn't believe how well the evening had turned out, given that it began with Snape pounding at his door. He had _permission_, now, to practice the Occlumency he'd been fretting about, and a teacher to smooth the path before him. Snape wouldn't even realize he was doing it, since the choice to take Harry on as a student was all his. He would stop prying into Harry's affairs, too.

And he had not a clue that Harry had already finished the Medea's Draught.

Harry picked up the bunched Invisibility Cloak from the corner of the room and took out the corked vial of poison. He patted it, then put it in his pocket and went to fetch his cauldron.

He could still kill himself, and he'd better the preparations to trap Voldemort right under Snape's nose. What could be better?


	13. The Interviews

And once again thank you! To answer a few questions: Yes, it's likely I'll be able to update as fast as this for at least a little while longer. No, Snape and Harry have not yet stopped hating each other.

And this chapter does not exactly help Snape's hatred.

_Chapter 13—The Interviews_

Rufus was annoyed.

Matters that were important to the survival of the wizarding world should not be allowed to slip through the cracks. Private individuals might neglect their affairs if they wished—until that brought them into contact with the law—but the Minister of Magic, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the goblins at Gringotts, and others like them should pay attention to what they did.

Incredible as it seemed, only one man had paid attention to the guardianship of Harry Potter, and that meant it had proceeded in a haphazard fashion, according to his will and not with any legal documents or justification.

Rufus had looked at every memory in that damn Pensieve three times. He'd examined the documents pertaining to the Potter case and the arrest of Sirius Black until he was dizzy and saw afterimages of words every time he closed his eyes. He'd looked at every law that might apply, too.

And he had at last come to the connection that the Potters, with the trust in the world so usual of youth, had simply assumed that Sirius Black would survive if they died and be able to care for their son. If Black was killed, or arrested for deaths that weren't his fault and locked away in Azkaban for twelve years, they had no second guardian chosen.

So Albus Dumbledore had simply stepped into the gap and placed the boy with his Muggle relatives. There was no one to say he could. But there was no one to forbid him, either. And most of the people involved had not dreamed of forbidding him, out of awe of him and probably because they knew the Potters had trusted him implicitly and so would trust him to make decisions for their son.

There was one other person who might have challenged for control of Potter's fate, but as he was a werewolf, Rufus could see why the Wizengamot would have turned down his petition. Werewolves hadn't been allowed to have or adopt children for several decades now.

This left him in an unusual position. He could do several things, such as declare Potter a ward of the Ministry and take control of his legal fate. It was the usual procedure in such cases.

But that would almost surely rouse Dumbledore against him, and the Headmaster still had claim to a larger share of the public good-will than he did. And Rufus had no sanctuary prepared that was safer than Hogwarts or the Muggle home where the boy had spent his days so far. He certainly could not live in the Ministry.

Then there was—

Rufus's nostrils flared as he glanced at the neatly-penned letter on his desk. He would not admit it the dignity of calling it a _petition_. It was a demand. It stated that, since Harry Potter was an Occlumens, he needed a mentor, who was actually granted the legal authority of a guardian, and Severus Snape would become his mentor.

It was too bad for Severus Snape that Rufus recognized his name as someone who should have been in Azkaban. He was Marked, and he _had_ committed crimes; Rufus had seen some of them happen with his own eyes while he was chasing Death Eaters in the field. Dumbledore had freed him by pulling strings, and Rufus, resentful though he was of that, would not have cared if Snape had only taught Potions at Hogwarts.

But to have him claiming guardianship of Harry Potter…

No. It would not do. At all.

After thinking about it, Rufus made the only decision he reasonably could. Then he thought about keeping it secret from Potter, but in the end he made the only decision he reasonably could on that, too. He wanted Potter as an honest ally, so far as that was possible, and he would be more like that if he were not surprised. Rufus intended his gesture to be made along with the interview by the _Daily Prophet_ reporter, after all, and so it would be public. Potter would be declaring his support for the Ministry in front of everyone _anyway_. No need to trap him into doing so.

Rufus wrote a letter to the boy, explaining. Potter wrote back immediately. Rufus could feel his lips curve up in a smile as he read the letter over.

It was strange that the boy was a Gryffindor, really, instead of a Ravenclaw, which had been Rufus's own House. He had a manner of thinking things through that didn't seem consistent with a lion. Still, it was very welcome in a savior of the wizarding world.

* * *

Harry was expecting it, though it seemed no one else was, when the doors to the Great Hall crashed cheerily open on Tuesday morning and the Minister of Magic, followed by a tall witch with brown hair piled on her head to make her seem even taller, walked in.

Scrimgeour nodded to the head table, but didn't look at it for long; instead, his eyes sought and found Harry, and he came towards him, threading the tables as if they were a maze of cubicles. He spoke loudly enough for everyone in the Hall to hear, though Harry wasn't entirely sure if that came out of the natural acoustics of the room or a modified _Sonorus_.

"Here you are, Mr. Potter, as we discussed. " He inclined his head as he laid a sheet of parchment down in front of Harry. "After thorough investigation, it was found that no one with any true right had claimed your guardianship. Your legal future, until you come of age, is yours to decide."

Harry clasped the parchment and smiled up at the Minister, fighting against temptation. "Thank you, sir." He kept his voice polite, but then he couldn't help himself. He turned and looked at Snape.

The man's face was so pale he looked as if he might faint. Harry opened his mouth in silent laughter, and then realized the dark eyes were looking right at him. He winked, and turned away. Snape might wonder how much Harry had to do with this, but he would never know for certain. The means of presentation meant it would seem to the public like a gesture from the Ministry.

"And this is the reporter from the _Daily Prophet_?" he asked, looking at the tall witch, who actually dropped him a little curtsey.

"Astraea Johnson," Scrimgeour said, with a smart nod. "And may I say once again, Mr. Potter, how grateful we at the Ministry are for your giving the newspaper a few words of truth to soothe this troubled time."

Harry smiled as he stood. He had known that he'd be declaring his support of the Ministry in public, and that was a small price to pay, truly, for Scrimgeour's showmanship. "You're welcome, sir," he said. Then he turned to Johnson. "Shall we adjourn to a quieter room to talk, ma'am?"

"Of course." Johnson's voice was so soft and light that Harry imagined she had trouble making herself heard in a crowd. She gestured, and Harry followed her towards the still-open doors of the Hall.

He glanced back once to see Dumbledore and Snape descending on Scrimgeour. For an instant, he was concerned, but he shrugged it off. _You know he can handle them. Handling people like them would be part of the reason why he went into politics, after all. _

_And you're one step closer to deciding your own fate. _He thoughtfully touched the parchment declaring him free, which he'd put in his robe pocket, and wondered what to do with it.

* * *

Rufus remained gazing after the Potter boy for a few seconds. He looked worse than when Rufus had seen him last. Oh, his face was still at peace, but his eyes were darker. Rufus remembered that exact shade of darkness. He'd been in the field with Lawrence Delthorn, an Auror who was usually silent, but had laughed and talked up a great storm that night. Then he'd lain down, and the next morning, Rufus couldn't rouse him. He'd taken poison. Their last case but one, involving the slaughter of several children, had broken him.

_What is going on with the boy? And I wonder why no one else has appeared to notice? But perhaps someone has. I am not privy to every working of his mental state and daily life, after all._

"Minister Scrimgeour. Please come to my office."

Rufus turned and smiled at Dumbledore, letting his eyes rest on the man's cheeks instead of his gaze. "Of course, sir." Now that he knew the Headmaster was a Legilimens, he intended to keep a few of his own secrets.

Severus Snape was behind him, too, growling like a Crup inappropriately tamed. Rufus grinned, and didn't look around. The man was probably used to having some measure of power over his students and even his other colleagues. He had none over Rufus.

They went to the Headmaster's office, which Rufus found an invigorating walk. His bad leg was troubling him again, that was true, but surrounded by the malice of enemies, all his old Auror instincts returned and rose up roaring. This was where he _belonged_, really, in danger, not stuck behind a desk. He did envy his Aurors such as Moody sometimes.

When they were seated in the office, the Headmaster offered him a lemon sherbet. Rufus performed a non-verbal detection spell on them, on the principle that _he_ would have drugged his sweets if he'd ever been in the habit of offering them, and found a misty glow indicating the presence of a potion that dulled reflexes and relaxed mental defenses just a bit. He refused.

Snape sat close on one side of him, still scowling. Rufus ignored him merrily. It was true that he'd stolen a march on them, and also true that it would never happen again, because now they knew he was in the game and would watch their backs more effectively. But he could enjoy it while it lasted, and establish that they couldn't intimidate him even when he'd lost the high ground.

"Now, Minister," Dumbledore began in his mild way, "you must realize we are all concerned with Mr. Potter's safety and legal status."

"Of course we are," Rufus contributed. "That young man is the savior of the wizarding world, after all." He heard a snort from beside his chair, and filed it away. _Interesting. If the Potions professor doesn't like the boy, why in the world did he try to become his guardian?_

"Of course," Dumbledore echoed, with a little smile and a nod. "But the dear boy has had trying year after trying year. It may be true that his current guardians are not the best people he could live with, but the best choice has been removed from us."

If he was trying to make Rufus feel guilty for Sirius Black's death, it was not going to work. He was sure the Headmaster could not have known the truth until recently, either, or he would have tried to free Black from Azkaban and demand a trial with the use of Veritaserum for him. "In fact, Headmaster," Rufus said calmly, "I have investigated the matter—"

A slight frown appeared between Dumbledore's brows, perhaps because he'd tried to catch Rufus's eye and that didn't work, either.

"And have discovered that those Muggle relatives of his mother have no right to call him their own." Rufus tapped his fingers together. "In such cases, the child in question becomes a ward of the Ministry, but we have no one in the Ministry prepared to claim exclusive charge of him. And, in this case, the 'child' has been aged into a young man by the trying years you mention. I thought it best to let him have his own choice in the matter."

"And if he will not make the best choice?" Snape demanded. Rufus shifted his head slightly to look at the man, but not much. Dumbledore was still deservingly the main focus of his attention. "The boy is sadly lacking in brains."

"I haven't found him so," said Rufus brightly, and watched Snape's eyes narrow. _Ha! He agrees with me, I think. But it costs him to admit it. _

As if aware that his face was so open, Snape looked away again with a small grunt. Rufus turned back to the Headmaster. "If you wish to see the legal documents authorizing the change in guardianship, I can of course show them to you, sir."

"No, no, I don't think that necessary." Dumbledore waved away the matter with one hand, as if he were clearing a cobweb, and then leaned forwards. "Do you know, Minister, I had expected to see you at the school long since."

Rufus smiled. He wouldn't deny that part of the reason he'd come along with Astraea Johnson was to have an excuse for entering Dumbledore's territory without being invited by the man and so giving up some of his pride and independence. "And I had hoped to see you at the Ministry, sir."

"Alas, the pressure of my duties for the school—"

"You maintain a schedule flexible enough to open for me at less than a moment's notice in the midst of all that pressure." Rufus shook his head and pasted an expression of reluctant admiration on his face. "Impressive."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed at him. Rufus looked calmly back. He didn't think the old man was malicious, really. He'd just got used to having things all his own way when Cornelius was Minister, and now he acted as if he should have his way with the new Minister, too. And if that included not respecting laws and being able to have more power than he should, of course he would want the advantage. So would Rufus.

"I wish to work with you, Minister," Dumbledore said softly. "Or would, were matters not so…difficult."

Rufus opened his eyes wide. "I would hope, sir," he said, with just the right touch of surprise, "that such a matter as granting a young man his overdue independence would never come between us when the safety of the wizarding world is at stake." He spoke more seriously after that. "I can use your help, and I can give it. Lending Aurors to guard Hogwarts, for example. Working out a program of home study with your professors so that those students from families most at risk can continue their education in Unplottable locations. Giving a prod to laws that would make crimes such as Muggle-baiting punishable with more time in Azkaban." He ostentatiously did not glance at Snape. "But I can do nothing of the sort without your cooperation. And you so far seem unwilling to give that."

Dumbledore chuckled, firmly ensconced in his persona as a harmless old man again. "So far, you seem to have talked about Ministry sacrifices alone, my dear sir. Let me know what help an old wizard can give, and I'll give it."

"May I return in five days' time, and bring a group of selected Aurors with me?" Rufus asked quietly.

The twinkling blue eyes brightened. "Of course!"

Rufus made a silent note that some of Dumbledore's agents—this 'Order of the Phoenix' that the Potter papers had mentioned—apparently hid among his Aurors. He stood. "Then I thank you for your time, Headmaster, and I hope that you will come to see the wisdom of my decision eventually."

Dumbledore only gave him a wise smile, as if to say it would be the other way around, and then waved his hand again. "Severus will show you out."

Severus didn't like this; Rufus could tell it from his muffled growls. But he rode the moving staircase down with him in silence. Rufus thought he knew why, and it was proven when Snape grabbed his arm at the gargoyle.

Rufus turned, meeting those dark eyes without fear. "Unhand me, now," he said quietly.

"Why did you not grant my petition for guardianship of Potter?" Snape hissed at him. "You know what he is."

"I do, actually," Rufus said. "And you are right that a young Occlumens requires a good teacher. I can assist Mr. Potter in choosing one, if he requests my help. But I also know what you are."

Snape narrowed his eyes at him.

"Dark wizard. Death Eater." Rufus resisted the temptation to poke him in the chest with a forefinger, just barely. "Not a fit guardian for the savior of the wizarding world." He freed his arm with an easy pull and walked away.

Snape would try something else, of course. This was not done. But Rufus was sure that Potter could withstand the man.

He wondered, as he went, if he ought to tell someone else about the shadows in Potter's eyes. But then he dismissed the notion. _No. Either someone knows already and is helping him, or I would betray a secret of his. The boy certainly does not _seem _on the verge of suicide, but active and alive and committed to his political future. I have been mistaken about such things before, and such dark eyes may only be due to his destiny._

* * *

Harry found Astraea Johnson much more accommodating than Rita Skeeter had ever been. She didn't use a Quick-Quotes Quill, for one thing, but listened intently and then wrote what she heard down, sometimes asking Harry to repeat himself if she wasn't sure of a word. She rarely missed one, in fact.

She asked questions about his support of the Ministry and his troubles with the old Minister and Umbridge. Harry was quite happy to voice them, and more than once he caught a small smile on Johnson's face when he mentioned Rita Skeeter. Well, why not? They were probably rivals, after all.

The interview went well, light and fast, and soon Johnson was standing and curtseying to him. Then she extended her hand to him. Harry felt the firm nature of her shake and glanced up at her questioningly.

"I'm Muggleborn," she said in her soft voice. "And Death Eaters killed my sister sixteen years ago, when she was just eleven. I cannot say how grateful I am that you keep guard on our world, Mr. Potter."

Harry shook her hand back more strongly in response. Just about a month now, and people like Astraea Johnson shouldn't have to worry again.

He waited until she left before he also left the room, again touching the guardianship paper in his pocket. He paused when he saw that Dumbledore was waiting for him, face graver than normal.

"Will you come with me, my dear boy?" he asked. "I think we should talk."


	14. Veiled Motivations

Thank you for the reviews! I'm not entirely sure when the Christmas chapter will be, but probably somewhere around Chapter 24. This story keeps growing and changing and adding complicated plotlines, though (I did not know two chapters ago that Scrimgeour was going to do that), so we'll see.

_Chapter 14—Veiled Motivations_

Harry nodded to Dumbledore, which the Headmaster didn't seem to expect, if the curious way he studied Harry was any indication. "Of course we can talk, sir," Harry said, and fell into step beside him. "Should we go to your office?"

"No," Dumbledore murmured. "I think not. The fresh air might do both of us good, won't it?" He cast a spell without waiting for more than Harry's nod. Harry wondered idly if it was a charm to make the air fresher or keep them from being overheard, and then realized abruptly that he recognized the wand movement. He'd seen a description of it while studying Oddivarius's Charm. It was one meant to subtly increase the sense of intimidation in a wizard's aura, partly by working on the magic and partly by working on appearance, so that people speaking to him would give him more of their attention, awe, and respect.

_I don't know why he feels he has to do that, _Harry thought, flicking his own wand in a silent _Finite Incantatem. I haven't chosen my own road in a way that's at all disrespectful to him. _

_Unless he thinks any separation from him is disrespectful. _

Harry hadn't considered that perspective. He had thought Dumbledore would be angry and disappointed with him, but not _this_ angry. That was reserved for Snape. He made an effort to open his eyes and ears, to pay attention to any more spells the Headmaster cast.

Dumbledore didn't appear to notice Harry's ending of his charm, or deemed it more politic to say nothing about it. He waited until they had left the entrance hall and crossed onto the frosty stones outside to speak. "You do realize that you've taken a dangerous course that could bring many enemies down upon you, don't you, Harry?" he said in a gentle voice.

_Like you?_ But Harry kept the remark behind his teeth. "I know that some people won't like me supporting the Ministry, sir," he said, keeping his voice as cheerful as possible. "But I had a bad reputation with them already. I think a lot of wizards read the _Daily Prophet_ and wondered how much of what happened to me was my own fault. This isn't much, and it does repay Scrimgeour for what he did for me." He touched the paper proclaiming his choice of guardianship in his pocket again, just to be sure it was still there. "As he says, seeing the Ministry and the Boy-Who-Lived united might help calm down some of the people who are panicking."

Dumbledore simply shook his head gravely, as if he knew better. "Linking oneself in debt to the Ministry is a perilous course, Harry."

"I know." Harry shrugged his shoulders. "But the way I see it, being indebted to anyone is perilous at best. Headmaster."

Dumbledore looked sharply at him.

"Snape, for example," Harry continued blandly, meeting his eyes and feeling that refined Legilimency flutter at his shields. It was the battering of a bird or a bat against a closed window, and the sense came that he could open his shields and the Legilimency would do no harm. Harry knew better. If that probe was a bird, it would have been a harpy. "He's in a dangerous position because of the ties that he allowed to bind him to Voldemort."

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry." Dumbledore gave a delicate sigh. "There are—other reasons that I wish you had not gone to the Minister behind my back. I would have advised you on the course of choosing your own guardian. That is, if you are no longer satisfied with the care I have taken of you?"

He used so gentle, so unassuming, a tone of voice to say that. Harry almost felt bad for denying him. But he no longer believed that gentle, unassuming tone was the exact truth, and hadn't since Dumbledore admitted to keeping the prophecy from him. If nothing else, he thought his deception of Dumbledore justified because it was the last trick he would ever play on the old wizard. They would not be political foes for long.

"I know you did your best for me, sir. But I'll be of age this summer, and I don't think I'm prepared to fight Voldemort. I need to understand the laws of the wizarding world better, the way I need to understand other resources it has. And this is a way of stepping out from under your shadow and facing the blows that are coming. If I can't do this, how can I fight Death Eaters?"

"Resources, Harry?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in reproof. "Be careful you do not come to think of people like that, or you will follow in Voldemort's footsteps."

Harry restrained his snort. _As if you've never done it! Every military commander has to. I wonder what he would say if I told him that I know exactly which ones I need to use and which ones I don't?_

He put the thought aside as soon as he'd entertained it, though. His purpose today was to secure a waiting period, because time was on his side. He wanted to convince the Headmaster that, someday, he'd become part of Dumbledore's fold again. He couldn't show the determined opposition he really felt to anyone who stepped into his path. If he did, it would only make the Headmaster exert all his efforts to oppose him, and Harry didn't have time for the distraction. He'd play Snape's head-games because that was the way he could best convince the Potions Professor he'd only changed a bit. The best way to convince Dumbledore was to show traces of his old self floating beneath the confident new one he'd adopted.

The confident new one was really almost the whole of himself, of course. But Dumbledore wasn't to know that, just yet.

"I don't plan to treat other people like pawns, sir, or sacrifice them," he said. _The move's already set to capture both kings. _"But I need to do _something_ now that the war's officially started and Sirius is dead." He let a bit of wistful frustration creep into his voice, and saw Dumbledore latch onto it.

"You still miss him, don't you, my boy?"

"Of course," Harry said, speaking only honest truth. _Mix the truth with the lies, and they're stronger and taste sweeter. _He bowed his head. "And I know that he died in the Ministry, but I don't blame the Ministry for having killed him." The temptation to say "I did that" was so strong he almost blurted it out, but that would lead Dumbledore in yet another direction Harry didn't want him to turn. "Fudge is gone now. Scrimgeour seems all right."

"He is someone who chases Dark wizards, Harry," Dumbledore warned him, "someone who has difficulty seeing the shades of gray in our world. He was angry at Professor Snape merely because he once served as a Death Eater, without considering that a man can change."

Harry gave a silent cheer, even as he nodded at Dumbledore with a small smile. "I'll keep that in mind, sir."

"Does this mean that you will act independently of the Order, or even against us?" Dumbledore asked next. They had halted with Hogwarts behind Dumbledore, and his eyes seemed as gray as the sky.

"I don't want to!" Harry cried. _Time to play the emotional teenager. _"I don't want to," he repeated in a whisper. "Really, Professor. I just need—some time to make up my mind. And I can't have it, because it seems that everyone's pushing me in the direction _he_ wants me to go in, not the direction I actually want to go! I'm not going to choose a guardian right away, either. Just—just give me some time." He gasped frantically at the clear air around him, as if he couldn't get enough of it into his lungs. "I want a period of freedom where I can _think_, and not have people driving me in circles!"

"Have I been doing that to you, Harry?" Dumbledore's voice had softened. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

Harry met his eyes, and decided that was the truth, as far as he could tell. Dumbledore really did want the best for him, and for him to come out all right. The problem was that, at the same time, he wanted to win the war, and for Harry to do his best to kill Voldemort. That might account for a great deal of the inconsistent behavior he'd shown Harry over the years. Next to Dumbledore, Snape, Malfoy, Ron, and Hermione were all on a level. At least Harry knew what he could _expect_ from them.

"I don't think you meant to, sir," he responded, in softened tones of his own. "But it happened. Now, please, can I just have a few weeks alone where I can _think_ about everything? The Ministry, and your warnings about the Minister, and having the choice of guardian in my hands, and the war?" He bowed his head and stood panting there for a moment.

Dumbledore observed him in silence. Harry longed to lift his face and see how he took this, but he thought it would be best-suited to the part of a sullen teenager if he stared at the ground, so he did that.

"I had thought," Dumbledore said, voice as mild as ever, "that you had agreed to let Professor Snape be guardian to you while you learned Occlumency."

"I did think that," Harry said honestly. Given that he _had_ to practice the Siren Song on another strong Occlumens in preparation for trapping Voldemort, Snape was his best choice. Harry had looked at Malfoy's Occlumency again last night, but it was worthless, like scraps of tissue. "But then Minister Scrimgeour contacted me, and offered—a different option."

"Will you still accept training from Professor Snape?"

Harry snorted. "I doubt he'd let it go, sir." _And I need to refine the Siren Song on him, since it's a technique I can't practice on my own, and it's absolutely imperative that I have it perfect in five weeks. If he can teach me anything else useful, then I might as well learn that, too._

"No, he won't." Dumbledore surveyed him once more, then pronounced, "I see no harm in letting you have a bit of the freedom you need for now, Harry. Just remember that this is not to be abused."

Harry looked up and grinned at him. _I fooled him. He thinks my rebellion nothing deep or serious, just a flash of willfulness, and he's confident that the adults can still control me, or he wouldn't have granted me even this much. _The thought that he wanted to commit suicide to kill Voldemort and repay Sirius would probably not cross Dumbledore's mind now, Harry thought; there was simply no trace of it in the disguise Harry had adopted.

"Thank you, sir," he said, and then lunged forward as if overcome by emotion and gave Dumbledore a swift hug. When he trotted back to the school, he pretended to wipe his eyes.

_And that's one less person to constantly dodge on the road to the end._

* * *

Severus had had a chance to cool his emotions in deep water and think calmly about what he would do next. That was the only thing that made him able to listen to Albus with a stoic face.

"I fear Harry is plotting something drastic, Severus. I do not know what, but this break with the Order reads as too planned to me, though Harry tried to convince me it was sudden." A soft sigh, and Albus took a sip of tea from the cup that sat beside him. Fawkes trilled, an oddly neutral sound, as if the phoenix did not know what to think. "I do not know how he can think to set himself up in political independence, as he has few contacts or allies outside the school and is not yet of age, but perhaps he has resources we do not know about."

_I would not doubt it._

The image of Potter's laughter and wink at him—_winking­, _of all things—at breakfast came to mind. They had enraged him at first, which was why he had been so incautious about approaching the Minister. He had quickly been reminded that to lose one's step in the political arena was equivalent to cutting open a vein in tropical water and expecting no sharks to find it.

But he would get little done if he lost his temper. Black had escaped punishment two years ago because he could not control himself. He must not seem too eager to achieve his goal: to subordinate Potter completely, to have a web of iron drawn around the boy's chest that would dictate when and how he breathed.

Oh, yes, he might have deluded himself with fancies that Potter would actually apply effort to Occlumency without outside pressure, and become a model student and a pet of sorts. Those ideas had been dashed the moment Potter looked at him, eyes far too wild for anyone so meek. Perhaps he really _hadn't_ planned on taking another guardian on Sunday, when Severus found him with the Medea's Draught; perhaps Scrimgeour really had offered him an unexpected chance at freedom, and he had snatched it. But it did mark Potter as different, yet again, from what Severus had thought he was. He was canny as well as cunning, able to act quickly as well as make long, slow plans.

One person rarely united the two traits. Severus prided himself on doing so. That he had not seen Potter was another like himself was—

Enraging. But he would achieve nothing in the middle of a fury. Slow, steady, calm, and when he closed the trap, it must not open against Potter's struggles, any more than a basilisk's jaws would.

"I'd like you to find out what Harry is hiding if you can, Severus."

Severus had expected that. From the moment he told Albus about Potter's Occlumency and what he intended to do to be sure the boy practiced at it, Albus had hinted that he should use the new closeness to direct "the dear boy" back to the proper way. He might have been able to do it already if he had not been so careless, so smugly confident that he'd won.

Now, he was not. Now, he knew Potter for what he was, and he would apply all his concentration to downing and controlling him.

"Of course, Albus," he said smoothly. "It _must_ be something drastic, and therefore important to the Order, if it can involve such a change in him." It was not much of an effort to make his own self-interest sound like concern. Albus was already half-convinced that he had a soft spot for the brat since Severus had made his offer of guardianship. "One would almost call him Slytherin."

Albus chuckled.

Severus cocked an eyebrow and stared hard at the old wizard. He would have expected laughter in response to his pronouncement, given the Headmaster's deep conviction that Potter was the perfect Gryffindor, but this sounded…rueful.

"The Sorting Hat did consider your House for him at one point," Albus admitted. "Harry didn't like the idea, and he managed to argue his way into Gryffindor."

Severus felt a flash of deep regret that he'd never known that. If he had, he would have dogged Potter's steps closely from his first year, and this emergence of Slytherin traits would not have been such a surprise.

He shrugged and hid his real emotions easily, rising to his feet. "We would probably have killed each other before now," he said. "If Potter has truly matured, he can accept my instruction without hating me." The boy would have to come to him to practice the Siren Song. There was no other logical choice open to him for an Occlumens; Albus would have been an even worse selection.

_And then I shall have him._

"I wish you luck, Severus."

_You would not if you knew all my plans, _Severus thought, as he inclined his head and left. _I intend to tame the boy, oh yes, but I won't be your running dog. He insulted _me, _not you or the Order. In the end, he'll crouch at the end of my leash, not yours._

Of course, it would hardly do to inform Potter of this. Severus would have to grumble, but do no worse than grumble, on the surface, while he provided enough tidbits to lure the boy close. All the while, he would also have to satisfy Albus that he was truly committed to teaching Potter.

That was not such a hard task. If there was anyone in Hogwarts who had the ability to maneuver between two intelligent wizards while convincing them both he served only their interests, it was Severus Snape.


	15. For Love of the Game

Thanks once more for all the reviews! It's been great to hear all the different opinions of Snape, Harry, Dumbledore, and Scrimgeour, and what they're going to do next.

_Chapter 15—For Love of the Game_

Harry didn't know for certain if Snape would still want to have a meeting at seven that night, since they would no longer be meeting with the git in control of every movement, but he decided to go. If nothing else, it gave him a reason to get away from Ron and Hermione.

Harry shifted uneasily from foot to foot. They had both been surprised by the fact that Scrimgeour had let him have control of his own destiny. He'd expected that. He hadn't thought they'd be upset.

"After all, it's a dangerous situation, Harry," Hermione had said, with her eyes suspiciously wide. "Someone could hurt you while you're without an adult to protect you."

Harry had tried to point out that he'd _had_ a guardian for the first five years at Hogwarts, and people had still managed to hurt him—Quirrell, the shade of Tom Riddle, Umbridge. Hermione had just shaken her head and said it wasn't the same. Harry had tried not to be impatient with her. Of _course_ they weren't the same, and he was glad. He wouldn't have _wanted_ Hermione to go through what he did and make the same decision he had.

Ron didn't object so much, but he invited Harry to a game of wizard's chess and then stared at him so thoroughly that Harry would have played badly even if he was an expert at the game. As it was, he surrendered his last piece with just enough time to get from the Tower to the dungeons by seven, and stood smiling. "I'm afraid I can't provide enough of a challenge for you to make it worthwhile most of the time."

Ron looked up from retrieving his pieces. "Oh," he said quietly. He'd started to get much taller this year, and now he used all that height to stand up and frown down at Harry. "You're much more of a challenge than you think."

Harry was glad he'd had some practice in concealing his emotions, so he could just raise one eyebrow at him. "You're acting Slytherin this evening."

That destroyed Ron's calm, and he did his best to rant at Harry about the cheating trick the Slytherin team had pulled to have the Pitch for two days in a row. Harry patted him on the arm and left him there to rant. Ron wasn't too unhappy. The Gryffindor team had won their game against Slytherin, as Harry had known they would. Malfoy was a good Seeker, but he'd become too tangled up in taunting Ginny for being no Harry Potter, and hadn't even noticed she'd grabbed the Snitch until a great roar went up from the Gryffindor stands.

So everything was fine, Harry tried to reassure himself as he stood at the entrance to Snape's office. Really. Hermione would get upset at any breach of the rules, and Ron might be jealous of his independence. He'd got jealous over silly things before, even those things Harry didn't want. That was all his stare meant.

Harry thought it through, then shrugged. Even if it was more than that, if they were starting to get suspicious of him, he would only bury his secrets deeper and present the same subdued but cheerful façade that had fooled them so far. He was absolutely determined that nothing could stop him.

"Potter."

Harry jumped, and then clenched his hands. He really hadn't heard Snape arrive, but he could have avoided showing his startlement.

"Sir." He turned around and nodded to Snape. He had a thundercloud on his face. Of course he did. Harry would have expected that for their first meeting today, no matter what the time. He hated being outmaneuvered, and Harry had done that.

A small smile came onto his face as he thought about it.

* * *

Severus observed him coolly. Potter thought he had won, from the smile. Well. Let him have that impression, though Severus was strong enough that he hardly expected Potter to dismiss him as an opponent forever. He had chosen the direction he would head this evening: unwavering strength that, on the surface, gave the impression of being pettish weakness.

"The Headmaster has commanded that we continue your lessons in Occlumency," he said, voice slightly bored, as he whispered the word that made the deadly spells on his office door unlock for him. "I have no objection, if you have none. Mr. Potter."

The pause he gave before he spoke the brat's name, and the slightly sideways look that he pretended he could not control, would tell Potter that he did mind, very much. But Potter was to think that he bowed to a will superior to his own, and had been dragged here like a chained dragon, growling and fighting all the while. The more he could prevent his opponent from suspecting that he had any interest in this, the less likely he was to notice the chains weaving around him.

Severus paused a moment to note that, in his mind, he was giving Potter all the respect he would have accorded another Death Eater he needed to plot carefully around, and then gave a mental shrug. Few people had ever been killed by an _excess_ of caution. Since Potter had proved several times to have hidden depths, it was better to go too far into trapping him than to pull up short and leave him another chance to escape.

* * *

Harry eyed Snape's back. _Of course the Headmaster commanded it, and of course he'll just obey Dumbledore the way he always does. Does he think I'm stupid? He didn't continue the lessons after I looked into his Pensieve last year, even though Dumbledore would have wanted him to. If he really hated this, he would find a way to wriggle out of it. Therefore, he has something to gain._

Besides, Harry had seen no sign yet that Snape knew about his ultimate advantage: while the professor might have to look forward to months of fooling him, Harry only had to do it for five more weeks. Little enough time. A small shiver of excitement ran down Harry's back, partly anticipation of the date and partly love of the game. He could play against Snape with a light heart as long as he could keep that one secret concealed.

"It's awfully good of you to do this, Professor," he said, when they were both inside the office and Snape had lit the torches on the walls with a flick of his wand.

Another sideways glance, this one lasting a touch longer. Harry was sure this one was real. He grinned and continued in an innocent tone, mainly for the pleasure of seeing how Snape would react. If he pretended that Dumbledore's orders constrained him, then Harry had some space to irritate him before he'd snap.

"I know that you don't like me breaking my bargain with you to let you be my guardian." Snape still stood half-turned away, but Harry was sure he was listening. He widened his eyes. "Especially since you think I'm a danger to myself and others, as always. I'm sure that you don't believe I'm competent enough to decide what to have for breakfast, let alone how much freedom I should have."

* * *

_What is the boy doing? _

But almost immediately the answer came, since it was based on a tactic that he'd used during his detentions with some success: play on Severus's emotions, make him think about his own reaction and his own temper instead of why Potter would possibly want to say these things. Now it was impudence instead of sniffling and sobbing, but the end result was the same.

_Or would be, if I had not seen this before. Foolish child._

Severus did not let his quick surge of triumph distract him from the task at hand, though, which was sitting down behind his desk and fixing the boy with a stern glare. If he lived a hundred years more, there was one thing he planned on never doing again, and that was underestimating Harry Potter.

"Luckily for everyone involved, you do not need to decide what to have for breakfast, Mr. Potter," he said smoothly. "The house-elves do that for you. As for referring to the muddle that the Minister has made of your guardianship…do you think bringing that up is the best way to make me treat you gently in these lessons?"

Potter let down the mask for a moment, and Severus saw the steel behind it. "I don't want you to be gentle, sir," he said quietly. "I _want_ to know what the Siren Song does. I could use it to lure Voldemort close enough to me to kill him someday. Since our wands are useless against one another, I have to try something else, and this could be the beginning of a useful strategy."

Severus snorted. "Or just another one of those plans that you make up on the fly and then pursue at any and all rational cost." He waved a hand. "You'll fly off on a thestral if you need to, Potter."

For a moment, the boy's face was still. Severus vowed to remember that. _The mention of Black no longer controls or enrages him as it did, or he would never have written those lines, but it can still affect him._

* * *

Harry wondered, as he had done sometimes since he learned Occlumency, if that art was responsible for his strangely detached perspective. He could feel the dull pain that mention of Sirius brought on, but it was somewhere far away, the way Ron's voice had been when he was dizzy with hunger. Mostly, he could stand back and watch himself as he made the decision to show a certain amount of emotion, because Snape would not have been satisfied unless he could see that much.

_Even my grief for Sirius is a pawn in this particular game of wizard's chess, isn't it?_

But Harry had already said he would pay the only price he could for getting Sirius killed. He could be sorry for what he had to do along the way, but he could not abandon it, or pretend that he would rather show grief for his godfather than succeed. And at least he was more controlled now, and less likely to dash into dangerous situations, whatever Snape might think.

So he took a deep breath and pretended to ignore Snape's barb as completely as I could. "I'm not cured of them even now," he said. "The Medea's Draught was a desperate plan. But—"

Snape sat up at once, eyes alight. "Yes, Potter," he murmured. "Do tell me what you intended to do with that."

Harry felt his shoulders tense, but he met Snape eye to eye anyway, convinced that if the man could just read the secret out of his mind, he would have done it already. He wanted to control what Snape believed about the Medea's Draught. If he brought it up on his own and stuck it firmly into its proper niche in Snape's mind, the professor was less likely to sit up in the middle of the night with a sudden revelation in his mind, the way he'd apparently done when he found Harry brewing in the first place. "To poison Voldemort," he said. "I know that my wand won't work against him, sir, as I said—"

"And so you thought poison would?" Snape's lip curled very slightly. "If it were that simple, boy, I would have done it myself. He is protected against any poison known to a Potions master."

"Your doing?" Harry asked.

Snape was on his feet in a moment. "Do what you must," he said, his voice a deadly hiss, "but never judge me for the sacrifices that I have made to keep ignorant wizards safe in their beds."

Harry tilted his head, hiding his amusement and pleasure that he could get Snape to react like this even now. "I wasn't judging you, sir, exactly," he said. "I just wanted to know if he did have you brew him antivenins, or whether he preferred to manage that on his own. How paranoid is he?"

And that question, of all the ones he'd asked, made Snape go still and look at him with searching eyes. He didn't even seem to mind Harry noticing that kind of gaze. Harry stared back at him, honestly puzzled as to why this mattered so much.

* * *

_And just when I forget the brat has a brain, he uses it._

The pull to fall back into their old pattern of interaction, mindless impudence against calculated stinging insults, was strong. And Severus was sure Potter had meant to insult him.

But then he heard a question like this, and was reminded that Potter actually seemed to pay attention to the war now, and to think about what he could do to make the contest more equal—concerns that he had certainly been incapable of entertaining last year.

_This is not the boy I knew. And helping him towards his goal of defeating the Dark Lord cannot go amiss. I will be free if he succeeds, and if I can train him to a dependence on his teacher during the process…_

Severus allowed a faint smile to cross his face. Yes, some honey to sweeten the bait would go down nicely. Make the boy a permanent student, so in awe of his teacher that he couldn't break free of Severus's influence even after the battle was over, and he would weave many of his own bonds.

"He is fearful of death in a way you cannot imagine, Potter," Severus said, lowering his voice. "But you cannot so easily take him by surprise, precisely because he _is_ so afraid. He will have guarded against many of the avenues that you might think to try, and he has experience and knowledge that you cannot match in the time you have to defeat him."

The boy just nodded, and his eyes were brighter and more interested than they'd been since he entered the room. Severus stifled an exultant laugh. The temptation of knowledge would work as well on Potter as it had worked on him when Lucius Malfoy hinted at esoteric secrets to be found in the fold of the Death Eaters and their wise master. In this case, Severus would not be branding the boy with a Dark Mark, but he would lure him closer, always with the conviction that he could learn something else if he just concentrated, just listened a little more, just peered a little further down the dark road.

And that road would lead him to being controlled instead.

"That does not mean Occlumency _cannot_ work," Severus lectured, pacing back and forth. "You may be able to use the Siren Song to lure him into a trap. But you cannot count solely on that."

Potter's eyes fired with a brilliant green. Severus paused. Oddly, it seemed the boy had known this already.

But he didn't say anything, so Severus could go on. "The Medea's Draught was a ridiculous plan," he said, to relieve his tongue of the unnatural constraint he'd put on it this evening. "Aside from the fact that you could not be sure it would work on the Dark Lord, your brewing skills are too poor to concoct such a complicated poison."

Potter dropped his eyes, and nodded. "I've learned that, sir," he muttered. "Even trying to read the instructions and understand what I was about was hard. In the future, I think I'll leave brewing to you."

Severus sneered. _At least the boy does not overestimate his skill._

* * *

So much laughter filled Harry's mind that he found it hard to hear what Snape was saying. _Oh, Professor, if only you knew._

* * *

"There are other techniques beyond the Siren Song I can teach you," Severus said, making his voice lulling. He knew he didn't mistake the interested twitch of the boy's head to the side, though Potter tried to hide it. "Do you wish to know what they are?" He drew his wand.

"Well, yes." Potter looked up. "I—"

"One combines Legilimency with ordinary incantations," Severus continued smoothly. He pointed his wand and pushed with his Legilimency at the same moment as he incanted a non-verbal _Expelliarmus._

The trick worked as he'd thought it would. Both Albus and the Dark Lord had been too experienced by the time he met them to fall for it, but every other Occlumens or Legilimens he'd known had been a beginner and unable to resist. Potter's Occlumency shields tumbled as if undermined. Ordinary Legilimency would not have done it, because the shields were formed precisely to guard against ordinary Legilimency, but this was like a burst of Muggle gunpowder in an unexpected place. In a moment, Severus was past the shields and gliding into the depths of Potter's mind, as he hadn't been able to do since the start of term. He hadn't realized how much he missed the flailing helplessness of the boy's attempt to control his thoughts.

He caught a glimpse of the room where the Medea's Draught had been brewed and followed that, using that one memory like a magnet to attract others. Cruelly amused, he watched as Potter glanced helplessly back and forth between the cauldron and the instructions, a handful of belladonna leaves in his fingers, and gnawed his lip as if trying to figure out what in the world he should do.

He heard the boy shout something, but ignored it. If he was trying to use curses against Severus as he'd used them last year, it wouldn't work. This technique took a Legilimens deep into another's mind, and only the same trick reversed could pry him out.

There was a strange set of other memories associated with the brewing of the Medea's Draught. Severus reached for them.

* * *

Harry had used the Shield Charm in desperation, not wanting Snape to see anything more about the Medea's Draught, but it hadn't worked. He could still feel the hands grubbing through his mind, and though Snape had staggered back a bit from the force of his magic, his eyes were still focused on Harry, proving he hadn't been startled.

_Think! Think, damn it!_ Harry calmed his desire to tear his hair out, his fear that Snape would see something important—with Snape in his head this way, that was more likely to point the important memories out than not—and his crazed anger. _What did he do? What did he use on me?_

He'd gestured with his wand as he stared, hadn't he? And it had been the gesture that would have disarmed Harry if they were dueling.

_He used a non-verbal spell? Combined with the Legilimency? I think so._

Harry wasn't a very strong Legilimens as yet, but all Occlumency techniques save basic shielding shared something with Legilimency. The Siren Song constructed a Legilimency tunnel between two minds, for example. He concentrated with all his might on getting Snape out of his head and flicked his wand in the motion for the Shield Charm, shouting _PROTEGO!_ in his mind.

He felt Snape expelled from his head as if he'd tossed him. The man's physical body staggered. Harry fought the desire to collapse to his knees and pant. There was something more important.

He rebuilt his shields swiftly, and looked carefully at the memories that Snape had dredged up. Just memories of him lying in his room at Privet Drive, and trying unsuccessfully to brew the Medea's Draught. Nothing about what he'd planned to do or his successful completion of the potion.

Well. It wasn't _good_ that Snape had seen these memories, but it wasn't fatal to his plans. Harry opened his eyes and made good use of his desperate anger, translating it into the sort of temper tantrum that Snape would expect from him after this.

"How could you _do_ that?"

* * *

_Of course, he does not like me seeing memories of his failure. _Severus cocked an eyebrow at the furious Potter, feeling more in control than he had all evening. "That was one of the techniques that I intend to teach you, boy. I could not very well teach you without demonstrating it, could I?"

Potter said nothing, just kept panting. His face was flushed, his breath hoarse with anger.

"I find myself bored for the evening," said Severus, and sat back behind his desk. "Go now, Potter. Come back to me at eight-o'clock on Friday, if you think that you wish to."

Potter snapped his head down in a short nod, but even that was not the outburst that he would have given last year. With one last vicious glare, he strode out of the office and towards his little friends in Gryffindor Tower.

When he was gone, Severus allowed himself to think of the second set of memories he'd seen. He hadn't wanted to consider them while the brat was still in the room. Potter was not yet a very strong Legilimens, but then, he shouldn't have been able to force Severus from his mind yet, either, after only seeing the technique demonstrated once. Severus was beginning to believe that what he'd thought of as determination and beginner's luck, and then a talent for Occlumency, was actually a talent for _Legilimency_. The two arts shared many of the same aspects, but Occlumency was built more on defense and Legilimency on offense. If the boy had been thinking exclusively of the ways he might apply Occlumency to the defeat of the Dark Lord, then it was not surprising he had picked up as he had, and his aptitude with hexes and offensive "defensive" spells in Defense Against the Dark Arts, which Moody was forever bragging about, would help him learn even faster with Legilimency.

And now, that second set of memories.

Yes, they were only Potter lying in his bedroom, sometimes staring at the ceiling with his hands folded behind his head, sometimes reading a book. The first set made Severus sneer. So the boy was as spoiled and idle as he'd always supposed. Of course. Sometimes his family must grow tired of him, and that would count for the occasional different memories he'd seen last year.

But the studying of the book was different.

And so was the emotion that surrounded the memories. Severus was a gifted enough Legilimens to be able to read those. Albus was even better, often able to trace the source of the feelings. The Dark Lord could do it if he wished, but he most often preferred to concentrate on the crude emotions alone, such as fear and horror, and what would invoke them.

Severus had found crushing pain associated with Potter's memories of his home.

_Of course. Black._

It made sense, and it fit with Albus's belief that the boy was more depressed than he let on. But Potter's panic when he accessed those memories, combined with Albus's suspicions and his own, made him agree with the Headmaster: the boy was hiding something, something drastic.

He was on the track now. He would find out the secret, whatever it was.

And he and Potter hadn't even practiced the Siren Song this evening. The boy would have to come back. And the more he came back, the more Severus could show him and hint at, and the closer he would be to ensnaring him completely.

If there was a winner to the contest this time, it was indisputably him. Severus rose from his desk with a hard smile.

Of course, that was the moment his Mark began to burn. Severus choked down a sigh, and went to fetch his robe and mask.

* * *

Harry stopped himself halfway back to Gryffindor Tower, to lean on the wall and regain his composure.

_Snape doesn't know. He would have said something. Probably not about my wanting to kill myself—I can't see him caring whether I live or die as long as I defeat the Dark Lord when I go—but about the Medea's Draught. I'm still safe._

And, slowly, his breathing calmed, and his grim determination not to let himself be taken by surprise again rose. He'd ignored many of those chapters in the Occlumency book that had nothing to do with shielding or the Siren Song or Beholding. Perhaps it was time to look at others.

In the meantime, he fostered a bright, cheerful smile that looked natural by the time he arrived at Gryffindor Tower. Ron and Hermione must suspect nothing.

He kept the smile he told himself was natural as he chattered to Hermione about Charms, and told himself, as well, that Ron's quiet gaze was only assessing, not suspicious.


	16. The Hardships of Being Severus Snape

Thank you again for the reviews! I can't say yet who starts suspecting Harry first, or whether Harry manages to succeed in his plan, but it won't be many more chapters before the answers show up.

_Chapter 16—The Hardships of Being Severus Snape_

"Severus?"

"My Lord."

Severus knelt with his eyes respectfully fastened on the Dark Lord's face and his mind locked against his Legilimency, as always. This time, though, there was something different. The light in the crimson eyes had a feverish edge. The white fingers writhed and clutched at the edge of the basalt chair. Nagini now and then wound around her master's leg, now and then lifted her head to poke her tongue into the air, and now and then hissed at passing Death Eaters as if they should have known better than to walk where they were.

_Something has happened. _But Severus did not betray he knew this, any more than he would have betrayed his ignorance of what it was to someone outside the Death Eaters. He just knelt quietly and looked at his Lord until one spider-like hand made an abrupt gesture. Severus looked down and studied the floor instead.

"You do not know," his master began, voice rising like thunder, "of anyone who might have betrayed me, do you, Severus?"

Here it came—perhaps. The moment that ended his life and condemned him to days of torture—perhaps.

Severus had long since thought this through, and what his reaction would be. He kept still, and it could have been the stillness of extreme surprise or the silence of complete innocence that made him say, "No, my Lord. I would not keep silent on such a thing, if I knew."

"You would not, perhaps," the thing on the throne persisted, hissing his sibilants in his excitement, "have kept silent so that you could bring this traitor before me at a later date?"

Severus had planned his reaction to that question, too. "No," he said. "If I were not sure that this behavior was treacherous, I might keep silent a bit and watch, my Lord. But treachery undoubted could hurt us, and yourself, and the grand plan we have, if it was allowed to be practiced too long. Even small movements can lead to great changes." _Yes, they can. One gesture of his hand could send me to death, if he wanted. _That was the knowledge, the consciousness, that he let burn in his eyes as he raised them back to his Lord's face to show his serenity. Every other thought burned beneath the surface, safe behind the Occlumency shields.

"And you value this grand plan, Severus?"

"I do, my Lord," Severus said, with every appearance of perfect frankness. "You know my reasons for wishing revenge on the Light, and you know my talent for the Dark Arts." A thought, and his left hand twitched. It was the sign of a supposed addiction to certain spells that had to be performed with left-handed casting, a weakness Severus had built into the character he played before the Dark Lord over the years without actually being subject to it. "If I could practice them freely, if I could see those who have humiliated me ashamed and cast down, there is nothing I would not do." _And in such a world I can have Potter, perhaps, bound so tightly in the chains of the Imperius Curse that he would make up for all James Potter's sins. _It was an old dream, though one he had not cared so much for since he thought he might make Potter contribute to his own slavery.

"So you would not keep a traitor secret?"

Severus felt a bit of puzzlement touch him, faint and far away. _Does he suspect me of concealing someone else, then, instead of being a traitor myself, or is this only a prelude to telling Nagini to seize me? _"I would not, my Lord," he said. He _knew_ there were no Order of the Phoenix spies besides him in the inner circle, and any Ministry spy would have been found out long before. That left only those Death Eaters who would betray their Lord for their own ends, and unless they actually went to Albus, as Severus had done, he couldn't trust any of them, either. "There is no one I would try to shield if their hearts turned from you."

The Dark Lord examined him intently. Severus watched him back. He knew the precise distance between his hand and the emergency Portkey that hung near his neck, the button that fastened his Death Eater cloak. He did not let that distance show in his face. No one knew about that Portkey, not even Albus.

"I believe you, Severus," the Dark Lord said.

He blinked, half-unnerved, but did not relax his Occlumency shields. His Lord laughed at him. "Rise," he said, flapping a hand. "You may go. But remember that I wish the counter-potion to the Veritaserum no later than the turn of the year."

_That is more time than he has given me before. Perhaps he is pleased with me, or this traitor, whoever he was or is, will give him enough pleasure to dispense with his suspicions for now. _He stood with a low bow. "Thank you, my Lord."

He Apparated out, as always, and landed beyond the border of Hogwarts's anti-Apparition spells, near the edge of Hogsmeade. He paused, then, and shook his head as he thought about what had happened.

_Too close. He may not suspect me, or he may only wish to play a game like a cat. If I go back again, I shall more than likely find myself a chained and bound prisoner. And if I do not succeed in brewing the counter-potion to the Veritaserum…_

And he knew he could not, not with a time limit. A few more months, and he might have managed it. But there was a difference between brewing a simple antidote that could be given after someone had taken Veritaserum, and one that could be taken _before_ and make someone still able to lie and appear under the potion's influence.

_So. It comes to this, then. _

He pulled off his Death Eater cloak and mask, and strode rapidly towards the school as he folded them in his arms, his mind moving just as rapidly down accustomed tracks.

He had thought, from the first moment the Dark Lord returned, that he might have to flee. He still spied, of course, because he owed Albus that much. But if he was not safe, then he could not continue with the spying. Albus would say that he did not want to see him go into danger, and Severus knew that much was true.

But what would happen when he was done spying?

Once, it would not have mattered. Albus's affection would have protected him against any attempt by the Ministry to arrest him, and Cornelius Fudge was not the kind of man to press too much. The plans Severus turned over in his head now were originally ones he had prepared for that worst of contingencies, if Albus died fighting the Dark.

But now…

Now there was a Minister in office who was only too eager to arrest Dark wizards and Death Eaters, to show his public that he was doing some good. And Severus suspected, from several indicators, including how Albus increasingly gave him new tasks to perform without complimenting him on the just-done ones, that the old wizard's affection was fading. He still would not give Severus to the Ministry outright, of course, but he might allow things to take their—natural course. Severus had seen it happen with Mundungus Fletcher and others who, though useful once, had embarrassed the Order.

It might not happen. It probably would not happen. But if it _did…_

So he must think he would be hunted by Death Eaters and abandoned by the Light. What would he do then?

He had long since made his plans. If it came to this, he cared for himself above any and all ideals, especially when his sacrifices for those ideals would have to remain in shadow forever, and people who had done far smaller things received the heights of praise. He would flee, and survive, and make peace in the end with whatever side won this war.

He knew some Slytherins, like Lucius Malfoy—and, he very much feared now, his son Draco—who cared more for ambition than cunning, and who would not have fled, but remained to see what they could snatch out of the wreck of their lives. But Severus considered himself more intelligent than that. Rats were despised for not clinging to sinking ships, but it was the sailors who did that drowned, and the rats that lived.

Certain things were prepared. For one thing, the Dark Lord had never known, because he had never known that Severus had Occlumency, that Severus could use the Occlumency to block a certain amount of pain from the Dark Mark. Many traitorous Death Eaters were called back by that intense pain, anything to stop it from burning. That would not happen to Severus.

And no one knew about the small house he had prepared, which he simply called Bolthole, as one of a pair of refuges. A wizard who owed him a Life Debt for a potion he'd brewed took care of it for him, and knew to hand over the key to Severus and Severus only when he came for it, after Severus had passed a complicated series of tests to prove who he was. In that house he could live, if necessary, quietly and completely alone, until time and his skill at Potions served him in making a new life.

It would be a cramped dwelling, of course, in more ways than one, but he would be free of his two masters, independent at last. That thought made it all worthwhile.

He now only had to make the decision as to whether he wished to go there. And, by the time he reached the school, the choice was made.

He would send an owl to Julian tomorrow.

* * *

"But I did that spell _right!_"

Severus lowered his wand and restrained a sigh. He hated having to give private lessons to two students at once, even if one of the students would become his slave as a reward. Their voices, shrill and loud, seemed to pierce his skull right through as neither Albus's scrutiny nor the hints of the Dark Lord could. "No, Mr. Malfoy, you did not," he said, when he thought he wouldn't sigh. "It requires left-handed casting _alone_. You continue to try to make the proper movements with your right hand even when you hold the wand in your left. That disrupts the spell."

"I've had a lifetime of bring trained that way." Draco folded his arms. "What do you want me to do?"

_Stop being a spoiled brat and display the wherewithal to help yourself for once in your life, _Severus wanted to say, as he glanced at that face, usually pale, flushed now with anger. _Stop thinking someone else will save you, and stop dreaming of glory, and open your eyes to see what's in front of you. Your father's in prison, your mother's broken, you yourself are dependent on my protection for any standing in the Death Eaters, and you persist in defying me. I know you are capable of being smarter than this, Mr. Malfoy, but you are lazy, and frequently will not press your brain to that limit unless you are praised—but then you rest on the praise and argue that you need do no better. You are maddening._

He could not say that. For one thing, Draco only grew more maddened at any reference to his parents. Severus summoned his chilliest, most indifferent voice, and said, "You may continue waving your right hand about like a child groping for a sweet if you wish." Draco's right hand hastily folded. "And then, I suspect, you will die. If you do not wish to, attend to me."

"You don't really care if I live or die?" Draco whispered.

Severus eyed him wearily. If he had a little more time, then Draco would grow into a man. But he had to conquer the boy's self-absorption, and since not even the violent torture of his mother had done that, Severus was at a loss to think of what would in the few weeks he planned to stay here.

"I care," he said. "I wish you to live, and be a credit to my teaching. But if you insist on turning your head away and pouting—" Draco was doing this at that exact moment "—then you need not be surprised when I would rather cast you away like so much rubbish."

Draco turned forward again, his face deathly pale. He knew that _would_ happen, literally, if he were given to any other Death Eater. He swallowed and lifted his wand with his left hand. "I'm ready."

Severus tried to be patient and guide him, though this next spell was a failure as well.

* * *

"Tea, Severus?"

"Thank you, Albus." The cup felt warm in his hand, an unusual sensation after hours among the freezing ingredients that he needed to brew Veritaserum and the potion he had tried to counter it. Severus sat back, needing the heat against his skin more than the liquid in his throat right now.

"You think you will not be able to return to spying?"

No start. He had not known Albus would broach the subject today, when he had been reluctant to talk about it at their last meeting, but he was long-prepared for this conversation, just as he had been for his last one at the feet of the Dark Lord. "No, Albus." He flicked his wand, hidden in his left sleeve, and cast a powerful detection charm on the tea. A mild potion, a variant of the one Albus hid in his sweets. Severus decided it was worth the risk. The potion, diluted enough to escape his sensitive taste buds, was also diluted enough to escape affecting him immediately, and this way he would seem less suspicious. He raised his eyes to the Headmaster as he sipped. "It's far too risky. The Dark Lord, once he knew I was an Occlumens, would rip my mind apart. That would not trouble me if I carried only my own secrets—"

_Of course it would. It does. But it does me no harm, either, to seem half-selfless in his eyes. _

"—but he would also discover far too much about the Order. And Potter." Another touch of the cup to his lips, barely enough to moisten them, but positioned so that he seemed to swallow far more than he actually did. "If he were to learn Potter is an Occlumens…"

"Yes, it would be disastrous," Albus said softly.

_Old man, _Severus thought, with the remains of his tattered affection flavoring the mental words. _Everything would have been all right if you had not made your two great mistakes: asked me to go back to spying and hung this whole war on Potter's shoulders while loving him at the same time. The one increased my resentment towards you, the other has made you take half-measures. Either the ruthless tyrant or the true gentle leader. Not both at the same time. No one can sustain the contradiction._

_And you make yourself into worse than that: a tyrant who wants his subjects to love him. No wonder Potter lost trust in you. No, Headmaster, I think not. My days under you are done._

"We must make sure that you stay safe in Hogwarts." Albus nodded briskly to him. "How long do you think it will be before Tom calls you again?"

Severus shrugged. "I have no idea, Albus. He does it at a whim."

"Well," Albus said, his eyes sparkling brightly, "at the very least, Death Eaters cannot get through the wards."

_Excepting Quirrell and Peter Pettigrew, of course. _That reminded Severus that he needed to strengthen the wards around his chambers; in addition to the general ones forbidding entrance to Animagi, he wanted ones that specifically blocked out rats. He took one more tiny sip of the tea and rose. "With your permission, Albus." He kept his head bowed, using his hair to shield his face. Let him look weak, as if the revelation of the Dark Lord's hunting him constituted some sort of tipping point.

"Of course, Severus." The old man's voice had softened and warmed again. So Severus had once heard it, in the days before he decided that he was like all the others, pawns, in Albus's eyes.

A war leader could do nothing else. But Severus found it difficult to forgive the deception that had ever convinced him he was different, the way he found it hard to forgive the Dark Lord for being so different than that wise, learned image Lucius had painted for him.

"Goodbye," he said—one of these days it would be for good—and rode the moving staircase down calmly. Yes, he was well-rid of both his masters. In addition to Bolthole itself, he had a second hiding place, even more deeply secured, and a second identity he'd spent years establishing with correspondence to other Potions masters throughout Europe, although he hadn't yet appeared in person to them. Develop a mild glamour to appear different from himself, without the use of Polyjuice Potion, and he could take that name.

As he made his way towards the dungeons, loud voices from a side corridor caught his attention. He drew his wand and turned with relish, preparing to take points for being outside after curfew, but then the actual content of the conversation caught his attention, and he paused.

"—_off_, Ron!"

"No, Harry." That was the Weasley boy's voice—the voice of the only Weasley boy left in the school now, thank Merlin—and it was quieter and firmer than Severus had suspected it could be. "I _know_ something's wrong, and insulting me and yelling at me to sod off isn't going to work."

Severus cocked an eye carefully around the corner. Sure enough, Potter stood with one arm firmly in his friend's grasp, and a trapped, hunted look in his eyes. Severus felt a stab of envy go through him. He'd never managed to cause as much distress to Potter. Weasley was his friend, of course, but he was so much younger than Severus. He shouldn't have that much skill.

Potter took several deep breaths, and then the poised, calculating glance Severus had come to know replaced the hunted one. He stood up taller. "Listen, Ron," he said. "I can't tell you because it's not my secret alone to tell." He leaned slightly nearer and lowered his voice as Weasley opened his mouth to protest. "But I'll be free to tell you after New Year's. The—other person it concerns will be safe then. Can you wait that long?" Now a hint of pleading graced his voice, though Severus was willing to wager that was also an act.

Weasley spent some time peering at Potter's face. Then he said, "You mean that, Harry? Safe after New Year's?"

Potter gave him a melancholy smile. "It's probably safe after Christmas, even," he said. "But I _know_ it'll be safe then."

Weasley spent some time thinking about that before he released Potter's arm. "All right," he said. "But remember you promised."

"I will," Potter said softly, and stood watching Weasley go. Then a soft swish irradiated the air around him, and he vanished. Severus knew he'd used that dratted Invisibility Cloak.

Severus stepped back before Potter could see him, and made his way in silence to the dungeons. All the while, he wondered what other person Potter's secret could possibly concern. That _would_ explain why the boy had protested so fiercely against an invasion of his mind.

Could it be Lupin? He knew the werewolf was on a spying mission of his own among his flea-bitten kind, but he had not known the boy was in contact with him. Of course, that could be yet another of Albus's secrets in and of itself.

It appeared even more fantastic that he was in contact with someone elsewhere, but—

_Of course. The Minister._

Severus gave a small, cold smile. Tomorrow was the boy's next lesson with him. He would see what he could dig up.

Though he would be cautious, and not do anything that would imperil his life, one pleasure of his last remaining days at Hogwarts would be tormenting and digging Potter's secrets out. Perhaps, if he worked well enough, he could even leave a loyal agent behind him, or at least a festering sore on the Headmaster's backside.


	17. The Lesson

Thank you once more for the reviews! Yes, Snape does mean to flee. His private thoughts are meant to be as "real" as possible. He may be lying to himself, but, if so, _he_ certainly doesn't know it.

_Chapter 17—The Lesson_

Harry had never thought the day would come when he would rather face Snape than Ron. But that day had come, and it was a relief to hurry to the "lesson" that he had with the git at eight, leaving Ron behind in Gryffindor Tower.

Ron had one advantage over people like Snape and Dumbledore, who might press him more closely: he could be at Harry's side _all the time_. He shared Harry's classes. He was there in the Tower when Harry there went to do homework or to satisfy Hermione that he was studying. If Harry sought the library as a refuge, Ron inevitably needed a book for his Charms essay at the same time. He ate meals with Harry, and watched every bite critically, as much to say that he considered himself responsible for Harry's fainting a few weeks ago.

And now that the Gryffindor Quidditch team didn't have another game until February, he didn't spend as much time in practice, and he was able to stare inquiringly at Harry across the room or the table for _hours_.

Harry needed some time to recover himself. A duel with Snape would at least provide that, since Snape wouldn't have allowed Ron to come into the office with him, and Ginny had come bouncing down the stairs in Gryffindor Tower just as her brother was about to walk Harry to the detention and announced that she hadn't seen him _all day_ and wanted to talk to him. Harry hadn't been able to stop himself from shooting her a grateful look as he climbed out the portrait hole, and she winked back at him. It seemed that one of his friends had noticed how desperate he was to be alone, at least, and attributed no dark movies to it.

He drew a deep breath as he walked down to the dungeons. He didn't like the look on Ron's face, how _concerned_ it was. It reminded him too strongly that his friends would hurt when he died.

_Well, of course they will. But I'm trying to make the last months as pleasant as I can for them. And they would have been hurt much worse if they'd died in some stupid escapade like the Department of Mysteries one, wouldn't they? And they've always known that my life is dangerous._

With that thought to soothe his conscience, he knocked on the door of Snape's office at exactly eight.

Snape, of course, didn't praise him for his punctuality, but called, "Enter."

* * *

Severus laid down his quill. It was hopeless to try and brew a counter-potion to the Veritaserum in this amount of time, and he thought any Potions master in Europe would have found it so, let the Dark Lord grumble how he would. Severus had been writing a letter to a colleague of his, even so, under his assumed name to talk about his research and ask questions. There was no need to leave behind all his interesting notes and the advances he _had_ made when he fled into hiding. His isolation here at Hogwarts had one good side-effect: no Potions master beyond the school had any idea at all what interesting research and experimental potions Severus Snape had come up with.

And now Potter was here, and their next duel could begin.

_Strange how I consider this the most relaxing part of my day, _he thought, as the door opened and Potter stepped in. He tried a _Legilimens_ at once, and bounced off Potter's shields. He felt himself give a thin, faint smile, and blinked. He wasn't appreciative of Potter's shielding, of course; it would never be as thick and strong as his own. But it was enjoyable, almost, working with an enemy who was prepared to meet you, and to fight you. There would be no challenge to it if Potter simply let him access his memories.

"Tonight will be dominated by practical techniques, as you see," Severus announced, and stood up. He had his wand in his hand, and Potter fastened an eye on it, no doubt remembering the trick that Severus had played on him. Of course he did, and of course he should have known that Severus wasn't so stupid as to use the same trick twice in a row, especially since Potter had learned and countered it.

He was ready. He had a smooth, flat stone in his hand, one he'd chosen for a potion that he intended to brew only to realize that a trip to Knockturn Alley for dangerous and rarer ingredients would be necessary. He began smoothing his thumb over the stone now, and using the rhythmic movements to project his Occlumency in a Siren Song, thinking all the while of the way Potter raced along the corridors, the insolent and defiant expression on his face when he gave wrong answers in Potions, the way he glared over his shoulder during detentions.

Potter's face went slack for a moment. Then it snapped back into tension as he fought. Severus knew the questions he would be asking himself. Why was he drifting off? Why now, in the middle of a detention with his enemy, when he had to keep on his toes? What was that sound he heard?

But those were the questions the Siren Song was designed to soothe, and in moments Severus had called his mind back. As he had known it would be, his Siren Song was stronger than Potter's. The boy stood still, his breathing soft, his face relaxed, while his mind floated closer and closer to Severus, along an invisible stream of sound.

Severus peered into it, unshielded, the moment it was in front of him. He could make out irritation with the Weasley boy lying like a flower petal over the more dangerous secrets in the bottom, and, like a surgeon, delicately peeled back the petal to see what those secrets were.

* * *

Harry woke abruptly, and groaned as a headache tightened around his temples. No wonder Malfoy had reacted like he had after Harry used the Siren Song on him. It _hurt_. He rubbed his fingers against his brow and fought not to whimper.

"Drink this."

A hand thrust a potion in front of him. Harry peered through watering eyes at the vial, and thought he recognized a headache draught, of the kind that Madam Pomfrey had sometimes given him last year when his scar hurt. He didn't have the ability to judge further than that, since he was only an expert in one potion and his head hurt so much. He took the vial and swallowed it.

The pain drained off like blood taken from a wound and then vanished. Harry continued to breathe quietly, though, and to feel that any sudden movement would bring it back.

"I am amply revenged for your use of the Song on me a few weeks since," Snape said, and his voice was dry and reserved, the way it had been since Harry entered the room. Harry fought the impulse to sag with relief. That meant Snape couldn't have seen anything important in his mind, then. He would have been in a fury of either laughter or rage if he had. Probably laughter. "You may take comfort. If your use of it on the Dark Lord fails, he will still awaken with an enormous headache."

"And so you can use various forms of Legilimency on him when he's close enough to you?" Harry asked, as if he didn't know that already. "The book I have only talked about it as being useful to lure a Legilimens close, where you could fight him with other means, or ordinary Legilimency."

Snape looked over his shoulder. "Precisely, Mr. Potter. And now—" He drew his wand. Harry drew his, too, and scrambled to his feet.

He'd spent more time reading the extra chapters in his Occlumency book, and had been a little dazed at the thought of how much he was missing. For a moment, he'd had the treacherous thought that he might like to live, just because he'd miss studying and using all these various forms of Occlumency if he died.

Then he told himself that he'd only learned this to use on Voldemort and make up for Sirius's death anyway, and what kind of coward was he? So he strove to learn the tactics that seemed useful, whether or not he could appreciate them for themselves.

It was a good thing he had. Snape hit him with Legilimency in forms that Harry hadn't even heard of a few days ago: Legilimency covered with certain spoken spells, creeping bolts that tried to go around the _back_ of his shields, a single crushing wave of power that could have broken his mind. Harry had the funny feeling that Snape wasn't holding back, either. Of course the lesson was going to be different from the Occlumency lessons he'd had last year, because Snape had only tried to teach him basic shielding then, but he had thought the man would have at least some concern about permanently damaging him.

_Apparently not. Or he's angrier over the Siren Song and my evading his trap as guardian than I thought._

So they dueled like that, in a mixture of wand and head, mind and body. Harry had never changed his mind—either figuratively, or as in the literal rearrangement of his thoughts—so many times. He had to think of the counter to be applied no more than a moment before he had to apply it. Whirling, pursuing, darting, throwing his shields up in the back, envisioning them in a circle, shuffling his more vulnerable memories into a tiny compartment while stronger ones stood guard before them, and throwing his own volleys at Snape went on for so long that Harry forgot there was such a thing as a world outside the duel, or a place where he might feel tired.

At last, he could tell his shields were weakening, and Snape was preparing another crushing wave of power, his third of the evening. Harry reached for the one weapon he thought would end the contest. As the wave arched, he waited a moment, until he was sure Snape was committed to the attack and his own momentum and reserves of power wouldn't let him back out.

Then he flung the memory he'd acquired from Snape's Pensieve, the one with his pants flashing gray as he hung suspended in midair.

The wave broke. Harry heard Snape give a wordless roar, but he'd suspected that. He was more interested in seeing if he could force a way through Snape's barriers while he was distracted with anger. If so, he could use the same technique on Voldemort if he had to. The memory of the night that he appeared in the graveyard, at the height of his power, and was defeated by a fourteen-year-old boy with a wand, should do nicely.

He caught a brief glimpse inside the shields. Yes, Snape was surprised. Something today had greatly shocked him, rocked him back on his heels, and he did not know how to deal with it yet. What was it?

And then the shields slammed shut like icebergs, and Snape stood glaring at him, and Harry became aware of his own hoarse breathing, and how much his throat burned, and how his eyes blinked constantly because of the sweat running into them.

"_Dismissed_," Snape ground out.

Harry knew better than to press. He'd already got far more practical good out of the lesson than he'd thought he would, and he could face Ron now. He inclined his head in a little nod to Snape and passed out of the office.

* * *

Severus layered locking charms over the door the moment Potter was gone. He truly did not think the boy would return tonight, but it would be just like Albus to "stop in and see how his dear boy was doing." He had an uncanny instinct for those times his presence was the least welcome. Severus did not want the Headmaster in the dungeons at all this night, let alone in the same room with him.

Only then did he sit down behind the desk and stare at the far wall, the thoughts he'd pulled from Potter's mind ringing in his head like great chimes. The answering rings came from those convictions of the boy's stupidity and uselessness that he could not quite subdue.

_He brewed the Medea's Draught. _

He could not. He was an incompetent brewer, and a more than incompetent Potions student. He didn't have Longbottom's nervousness, in fact he stood up to Severus far too often, so why couldn't he brew a simple potion like the Draught of Peace? It was certainly beyond his abilities to concoct something like a half-mythical poison.

_He did it. He brewed it. _

He could not have.

_He plans to commit suicide on Christmas Eve. _

Adolescents always said those sorts of things, and three-quarters of the time they were only fancies. Much of the rest of the time, Severus had confronted the guilty child with the plan, and the only answer he received was falling tears and a quivering lower lip and a wail as the idiot promised never to do it again. That Potter would be one of the few who would go through with it was ridiculous. He had shown none of the classic signs that suicidal children did.

_He has a timetable. That is always a bad sign. _

But the instrument he intended to kill himself with was Medea's Draught, and his hand would falter as he brought the vial to his lips. Potter didn't have the courage to resist that kind of pain.

_You saw his mind. Does he want courage? Does he want determination? _

He was half-insane in the wake of Black's death. That was only madness, and it could not substitute for courage or determination.

_And his Siren Song? His learning of Occlumency? This plan he has to kill himself because he knows that, in doing so, he would also kill the Dark Lord and leave his body without a mind?_

Potter could never gain the necessary expertise in time. That he would actually execute the plan was not to be dreamed of.

Severus shook his head briskly. What he had seen in Potter's mind surprised him, but that did not mean he was obliged to consider it _real._ Potter certainly did. He imagined he had brewed the Medea's Draught. He imagined that he would kill himself on Christmas Eve.

But what he had imagined need not be the truth. If it were, it would overset far too many of Severus's basic convictions.

It couldn't hurt to keep an eye on the boy, of course. The sheer determination to believe in his own fantasies, if nothing else, had surprised Severus. A strength of mind that supported delusions made a valuable tool in a servant. Severus snorted, thinking of several Death Eaters like that. Walden Macnair, for example, though far short of Bellatrix's insanity, still followed his Lord with a feverish devotion that closed his eyes to reality.

If he could dictate Potter's delusions, Severus would have the game well in hand.

He stood and walked towards the corner of his office where he often brewed, pondering. Would a mild suggestion potion help alter Potter's stance towards him? Would Occlumency techniques work the best? After tonight's duel, in which Potter had held his own surprisingly well, Severus was no longer _entirely_ confident they would work.

He need not tremble before the boy, of course. Perhaps Potter had dreamed up those fantasies of suicide and planted them in his mind hoping Severus would discover him, and confront him, and demand to know what he was doing. Severus nodded. Yes, that made the most sense, with Potter's endless craving for attention and praise, and his conviction that he was the most depressed and put-upon person in the world. Would the boy not be surprised when he received no sympathy? Perhaps he would shove the thoughts forward again in their next skirmish. Severus would laugh if he did.

He turned to brewing the suggestion potion.

His instincts hissed and whispered in the back of his mind. They told him to pay heed to Potter's delusions, to keep them in mind, and Severus planned to. Of course there was no way they were _true_, but they could be useful clues to the boy's strengths and weaknesses.

The boy was not that good a brewer. He could not have the determination shining like a knife in the dark that Severus had seen. Severus had to admit the boy's Occlumency, but he need not admit that the boy was making inroads into his most-practiced art until he saw the evidence with his own eyes.

And, of course, he never would.


	18. Azkaban

Thank you again for the reviews! Not much Snape and Harry interaction in this chapter, but that's because the Minister is once again causing trouble.

_Chapter 18—Azkaban_

"And you want me to let the Wizengamot know right away, sir?" The new Undersecretary's quill was scratching laboriously across his parchment. Rufus watched the man in amusement. His name was Roger Featherstone, and he looked exactly how someone with that name _should_ look. He was small, with brown eyes that squinted out of burgeoning rolls of fat, and a hand that continually had ink spattered on it.

"Of course, Featherstone." Rufus hardened his voice to scorn. "When did I give an order I _didn't_ want carried out right away?"

"Never, sir." Featherstone dared to look up and smile for a bit. His teeth shone between his lips like his eyes. He was so _nervous_, Rufus thought. He was forever vanishing to visit a girlfriend of whom Rufus knew no more than the fact that she existed, and he'd hurt his left arm three weeks ago because he was so busy reading over his notes for a press conference that he ran directly into a tree. "You're a very _fast_ Minister, if you'll pardon the word."

"It's war-time, sir," Rufus said sternly. "It's war-time. I'd like to know what else I should be, if not quick to let our people know when they're in danger."

"Oh, of course, sir." Featherstone ducked his head and swallowed. "I didn't mean to imply any criticism."

"Take that to the Wizengamot," said Rufus, and sat back behind his desk, watching Featherstone climb to his feet. His left arm had been imperfectly healed, and still hurt him sometimes, from the ginger way he moved it. Even though the parchment he carried weighed almost nothing, he preferred carrying it in his right hand. "No, wait a moment, damn it. I have to go talk to them myself, on a matter of some importance." He dropped his voice. "I hate it when Wizengamot members' children get in trouble and I have to give them a stern talking-to instead of something more drastic. If I was allowed to be drastic, their behavior might actually improve."

Featherstone dared to grin at that.

"Lend me your arm up," Rufus demanded.

Featherstone came around the desk, holding out his right arm. Rufus rose carefully from his chair and reached for it. His bad leg had given him more and more trouble lately.

He staggered, of course, half-pitching towards the ground. As he moved, he flicked his wand, hidden up his right sleeve, and aimed it at Featherstone's left arm.

His sleeve went flipping and crawling back. Featherstone stood there, appalled, and too shocked to realize what Rufus had done for a moment. Then he flinched away from the Minister, trying to drop him and clutch the letter and cover up his left arm at the same moment.

Rufus didn't let him. He'd seen what he wanted to see: the black snake and skull of the Dark Mark grinning on Featherstone's left forearm.

"_Aurors!_" he shouted. Pounding footsteps answered outside his door.

Featherstone made a desperate spitting sound and shed his nervousness. Suddenly it was rather like trying to hold a large snake. Rufus knew he didn't have the means to survive the contest for long. He was older, and had the bad leg, and Featherstone had his wand now and was aiming it at him with a crazed expression on his face. Presumably he'd been told to wait to assassinate the Minister until it would cause maximum confusion, but obviously he had no objections to doing it now.

Rufus used the bad leg as a weight, and let it buckle completely, dragging both himself and Featherstone to the floor. The younger man yelped as his arm hit the edge of the desk and his wand went flying. Rufus rolled over while he was still shaking his hand and flattened him with a series of moves that Featherstone wouldn't know anything about. Not even the younger Aurors knew them now, Rufus thought sadly. That was the price of letting useful skills lapse.

Featherstone tried to fling up his left hand and claw at Rufus. Rufus pinned his arm with a knee. Featherstone bucked, trying to use the bad leg as a weak point and throw him off. Rufus pinched a large nerve in his arm and gave him other things to think about.

By the time the Aurors came into the office, Rufus sat atop his treacherous Undersecretary as cool as you please, with Featherstone trapped beneath him and looking so miserable that Rufus would have been persuaded to relent if not for the blackness he could see every time he shifted a bit.

"Minister?" asked one of the Aurors, a gawky woman named Nymphadora Tonks.

"Tonks, Broommush." Rufus gave them both nods and pinched Featherstone's nerve again in warning when he tried to shift. "One of you go to the central Floo and call for the Wizengamot to be convened. The other help me hold Featherstone. Quickly, now," he added, as their mouths fell open. "We have a Death Eater to try."

It was really too bad he couldn't do this sort of thing on a regular basis anymore, Rufus mused, staring down into the tear-streaked face beneath him. This was where he really belonged, not behind a desk.

* * *

Harry was startled when a majestic-looking gray owl brought him a letter on Sunday morning, once again on that creamy parchment and with the calligraphy-like handwriting. He slit open the envelope and read the request inside in silence.

_November 24th, 1996_

_Dear Mr. Potter: _

_You may have seen the item in the _Daily Prophet _on Friday, concerning the arrest of a Death Eater called Roger Featherstone, my former Undersecretary. What you will not have seen is that the Wizengamot, through the judicious use of evidence and Veritaserum, has already reached a conclusion concerning him. He will receive a life sentence in Azkaban. _

_There are some people writing into the _Daily Prophet _already, to express anxiety and disgust over the idea that even a Death Eater would be whisked away like this. Their protests will get worse when they find out that the trial's done already. I would like to request that you write a letter of your own supporting the Wizengamot's decision and applauding Azkaban as the correct choice. The response to your interview was positive. A seemingly spontaneous letter would generate even more good-will for us._

_I have the honor to remain, sir, _

_Rufus Scrimgeour_

_Minister of Magic._

Harry's hand clenched down as if he would tear the letter in two. They wanted him to support Azkaban, the place that had taken Sirius for twelve years—

The place that also made sure Death Eaters like Lucius Malfoy weren't running about. The place that Harry knew he would happily have sent Peter Pettigrew in his third year, if he could have.

He stood up, pushing his chair rapidly back from the table, and then realized numerous eyes were fixed on him. It was true that many people had lost interest in the Boy-Who-Lived this year, as he did nothing remarkable, but the interview had rekindled it, and if he acted too strange now…

Ron's hand was on his arm. "What is it, mate?" he whispered.

Harry gave Ron a smile as calm as he could make it. "Odd news," he said. "Not bad, just odd. I have to think about this for a while. I'll see you later." Gently, he detached his arm from his friend's hold.

This time, Hermione was the one to grab him. "Come on, Harry," she said. "We're your friends. You can tell us anything, right?"

"Ask Ron about this one," Harry said shortly, and used one of the moves he'd sometimes used to slip away from Dudley or one of Dudley's friends. "He can tell you why I _can't_ tell you."

He strode from the Great Hall, head held high. Since he didn't go screaming in pain or clutching his scar or with tears running down his face, the slow buzz of noise in the Great Hall resumed behind him.

Harry walked until he was in a side corridor, one of those he'd often traveled when on his way to the abandoned classroom to brew the Medea's Draught. He touched the vial of the poison in his robe pocket. He'd taken to carrying it with him lately. Despite the danger of discovery, at least he was there to explain if someone found it, which wouldn't have happened if someone found it in his trunk. And he liked to be able to touch it as he touched the guardianship papers—a tangible reminder of his plan, of his independence.

He read the Minister's letter over again.

_Can I really write a letter in support of that place? Of them? They didn't give Sirius a trial. They should have known something was strange when he just laughed and laughed. They should have investigated to make sure the spell that killed those Muggles came from his wand. They should have used Veritaserum. I think Sirius would have agreed to it. _

The more Harry thought about it, the angrier he got.

But his rational mind, the one he'd acquired since July when he began to see things in a clearer light, pointed other truths out to him.

_The Minister said he'd look for evidence that Sirius could be cleared. And if you don't write this letter, he might think something is wrong, and look more closely at you. You can't chance that. You want everyone to ignore you as much as possible. And Sirius is behind the veil, and we all know you put him there. I'd say that's a greater crime than the one you want to punish the Wizengamot for._

Harry sighed. Just like Snape's lines, it seemed he'd have to do something else that disgraced Sirius. He'd apologize in his head the way he had when he wrote the lines.

He could do this; really he could. He only had a month to live. And he'd throw off suspicion in the meanwhile. The Minister had more power to hurt him than most people did, maybe more power than anyone but Voldemort, Dumbledore, and Snape. He could take back those guardianship papers if he wanted. And Harry hadn't liked the way Scrimgeour met his eyes when he came to the school. It was as if he could see his secrets. Harry didn't need anyone seeing his secrets.

He went to write the damn letter, wishing he could know when it would appear in the paper.

* * *

"Harry James Potter! We are discussing this right now!"

Harry winced and took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for the coming scene. His letter had appeared in the _Prophet_ on Tuesday morning. Hermione had read it in one gulp, and then turned and stared at him, horrified. Harry had quickly swallowed what was left of his breakfast, made excuses, and avoided both her and Ron the rest of the day, skiving off classes. He knew he'd have to serve detentions for that later, but so what? It had kept him from Ron's accusing stare, and he'd put the time to good use reading about Occlumency.

He'd returned to Gryffindor Tower late, hoping that his friends would have given up on him and gone to sleep, or retreated into one of those furies that long arguments between them usually took, where they refused to talk to each other. Instead, he'd found both Ron and Hermione in front of the fire. Ron leaned against the mantle with his arms folded, and Hermione sat like a queen on her chair, hands primly clasped together. Only the white knuckles of her hands showed her strain.

Harry sighed as he watched them. He hadn't wanted to argue with them. But if he had to do it, then he would. It might even be an advantage to do so. Ron had stopped speaking to him for weeks in fourth year, and Hermione had done the same thing in third. A few weeks without reconciliation would allow him more time alone and no constant eyes watching his every move.

"We're discussing what, Hermione?" he asked, keeping his voice as bland and neutral as possible.

"This _letter_ that you wrote." She rose to her feet, hands balled in front of her. "I know you don't really believe what you wrote."

_She's angry. Good. The calmer I can remain, the more of an advantage I'll have. _"Not everything," Harry admitted. "But some of it. It's certainly true that I believe Death Eaters should go to Azkaban, or I'd have to go and free Lucius Malfoy and the rest of them, wouldn't I?"

"That's funny, mate," Ron said, so quietly that Harry almost couldn't hear him. "The Harry I know believes in things with his whole heart. Not half and half like this."

_The Harry you knew is dead. _But that wasn't really true yet. Harry shrugged. "I've learned how to play politics a little. I had to, or something would have given. It doesn't mean I'm completely changed." _Just mostly. _"But I had to do this."

"You didn't tell us about it, though." Hermione's eyes were bright, and if she didn't yet cry, she was on the verge of doing so. "We've shared most things, Harry. We're your friends. Ron told me about this secret that you can't tell us until after New Year's, and now there's this letter, and the guardianship papers you didn't tell us about, and—and the way that you haven't really talked to us this year," she said, in the tones of someone receiving a revelation. "I didn't even notice that. You're _manipulating _us."

Harry winced again. He could go on, try to defend himself, but Hermione had handed him the perfect opportunity to shorten the argument, and he'd rather do that, to ease the pain all of them suffered.

He jerked up his chin. "So what if I am?" he asked, trying his best to imitate Snape's tone when he spoke to a slow student.

Hermione gasped and stared at him. Ron stepped away from the mantle, and moved slightly between Harry and Hermione. Harry thought he didn't even really realize he was doing that.

"What have you done?" Ron said.

"What I need to do." Harry gave him a cool, bored look, and wondered how long it would take them to realize that every word he spoke then was absolute truth. "What I should have done a long time ago, but couldn't work up the nerve to do. It's not much longer until New Year's, and then everything's safe, Ron. But if you can't wait that long…" He gave a little shrug.

"You don't care about us any more?" Hermione asked.

_I wish I didn't. I wish you didn't. _"If you want to look at it that way."

Hermione didn't say a word, just turned and walked away towards the stairs that led to the girls' bedrooms. Ron took a step forward. Harry took a step away.

Ron's face wasn't as dark with fury as Harry expected. In the past, he would have been screaming by now. Harry supposed he wasn't the only one who'd done a bit of growing up this summer. "I can't believe you'd be such a hypocrite as to just say that to our faces," he said. "How many times have you helped us, Harry? How many times have _we_ helped _you_? You owe us a lot, you know."

"I know," Harry said.

And now Ron stared at him. "Then how can you _talk_ that way?" he burst out.

Harry sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "That's what I've told you and told you. I can't tell you yet. You'll understand soon." And he turned and walked out of the Gryffindor common room. Ron shouted for him to stop, but didn't come after him. Harry thought that was a good sign.

_I didn't want to do that. But if they're going to press me, I'd rather do it, just as I'd rather convince Dumbledore that there's some chance he can recruit me back into absolute trust of him. Whatever I need to do. Whatever will help me accomplish this. _He lowered his hand to touch the guardianship paper and the vial of Medea's Draught in his pockets again.

* * *

It was, perhaps, not entirely coincidence that Severus chose to patrol past Gryffindor Tower that night. However, even he didn't expect to simply find Potter leaning out a window, staring at the moon. A wind ruffled hair wild enough to make it unmistakable who it was, even before Severus came close enough to see his face.

"I suppose that rules don't apply to the Ministry's little defender."

Potter didn't start. He just gave a faint smile, and then turned and nodded to Severus. Instinctively, Severus pushed with Legilimency, and only blankness met him. "I suppose not."

"Ten points from Gryffindor if you don't return to your common room immediately," Severus said, not knowing what to make of the expression on Potter's face. It wasn't for the situation in front of him, of course. It could not be. But his eyes were glazed as if he'd been studying something far away, entirely apart from the earth, and, combined with the faint, fixed smile, it made him look half-mad.

_Of course he is. You knew that already. In the wake of Black's death, his sanity deserted him. _But this was the first time Severus had seen a sign of it outside the boy's memories.

Perhaps a second sign was the way that Potter simply nodded and said, "Yes, sir," instead of protesting. He walked past Severus towards the portrait that obscured the entrance to the Tower without a second glance. Irritated beyond measure, Severus put out a hand and gripped his arm.

Potter stopped walking. The expression on his face did not alter a whit. Severus stared hard at him, and wished the boy had never learned Occlumency.

"Why are you so happy?" The question slipped from him, and he could have damned himself for asking it. But, with luck, Potter would just take it as the kind of petty suspicion a personal enemy was always capable of.

"I've been reminding myself that small bumps on the path to success are just that, small bumps," Potter said blandly. "And as long as I still have the determination to drive me forward, they can't stop me." He turned that faint smile upwards again. "Don't you agree with that wisdom, Professor?"

Severus narrowed his eyes. For a moment, a tremor of doubt assailed his mind. He had seen a smile like that once before, on the face of a Hufflepuff girl, an average Potions student. That had been the morning before she leaped off the Astronomy Tower, one of the few successful suicides Severus had ever seen out of all the I-hate-the-world-and-want-to-die cases in the castle.

But then he remembered the strength of Potter's delusions, and snorted. He was seeing the visible evidence of them now, that was all. He relaxed his grip on Potter's arm and let him step away.

"You will come to detention with me tomorrow evening at seven," he said.

"Professor," Potter said, and inclined his head, and walked away from him. The smile was still on his face, the last Severus saw of it, before he climbed up behind the opening portrait and disappeared.

_I planned to watch him more closely in any case, _Severus assured himself as he returned to his patrol. _It will be no hardship to keep that promise. He is not going to escape me by retreating into madness._


	19. Progress Reports

Thanks for the reviews! Once again, unfortunately, I can't comment on most of the best questions, because that would mean giving the plot of the story away.

_Chapter 19—Progress Reports_

Severus sat down to breakfast with a flourish, his eyes locked on the Gryffindor table. Potter was not yet there—an unusual occurrence, since both his friends were. The Weasley boy stared at his plate, eating but not looking up. The Granger girl was busy with a book.

_Could he have had an argument with them? _Severus wished he had a way of knowing for sure. The vial of suggestion potion in his pocket felt heavy, and he had to keep his glance from darting to the doors impatiently as he ate.

Finally, Potter entered. He took a seat at the opposite end of the table from his friends, and likewise picked at his food. Halfway through the meal, he abruptly snatched a piece of toast from his plate, turned, and walked out of the room. A buzz of voices went up from every table, including the Gryffindor one, but neither Granger nor Weasley tried to call him back. Severus snapped the end of a carrot off between his teeth and tapped his fingers in a thoughtful rhythm on the table. Potter had stayed for too short a time for Severus to introduce the suggestion potion into his drink, as he had wished. But he might stay for a longer time at lunch or dinner.

"Have you any progress to report with Harry, Severus?"

Automatically guarding his thoughts with the strongest Occlumency shields, Severus glanced at Albus and inclined his head. "I suspect that the boy is strongly depressed, just as you thought," he said. "He displays symptoms consistent with that: a low interest in his friends and food and ordinary activities, wandering the halls when he's supposed to be asleep, and a concentration on Black to the exclusion of all else." _He even believes that he'll commit suicide for the sake of making up the mutt's death, _he could have said, but he preferred keeping that to himself. If he confessed it to Albus, the Headmaster was apt to take Potter seriously and give him the attention he so craved, instead of treating the idea like the ridiculous supposition it was. And then he would take the boy to St. Mungo's, out of Severus's reach. Severus touched the vial of suggestion potion in his pocket again. His orders might counteract that, but it would be noticeable if the boy escaped from the hospital and came back to Hogwarts simply to be close to his hated Potions professor.

Albus sighed, his eyes losing their twinkle. "I had thought so," he said. "But I'm afraid I don't know what to do."

Severus snorted. "Leave him alone, Headmaster. Eventually, he will remember that there are other people in the world, and they have suffered, too." _Consistent with my agenda of despising the boy._

Albus gave him a deep glance. "I have never understood the depth of your antipathy to the boy, Severus."

Severus smiled humorlessly as he rose to his feet. "If you haven't by this time, I fear you never will." It had started when the Headmaster forgave four Gryffindor students for trying to kill him, and thus proved to Severus, if he had ever doubted it and been inclined to think the old wizard above other people, that he had his favorites, too. And a Slytherin could never be among them, or, at least, never on the same level as a Gryffindor.

He had a class to teach, and breakfast had proven valueless as far as trying to introduce the potion into Potter's drink went. He might as well leave.

* * *

Harry was on his way to Transfiguration when a voice hissed behind him, "Potter."

Harry assumed it was Snape, until he turned. Then he saw Malfoy leaning out of a side corridor and beckoning him. The other boy gave an exaggerated glance around a moment later, and ducked out of sight.

_Should I follow him?_ The main emotion Harry felt when he thought of Malfoy was amusement. Even if the boy had figured out that Harry used that Siren Song on him, he wasn't a strong enough Occlumens to return the favor. And Harry wasn't afraid of any spells that Malfoy might cast on him.

It would make McGonagall angry if he were late, of course, but she was already furious at him for missing class altogether yesterday and not being in the Hospital Wing. Harry didn't mind the extra risk.

He followed Malfoy into the tunnel and put his back to the stone at once, his wand resting easily in his hand, his eyes darting around the corridor to make sure none of Malfoy's goons waited in ambush. "Well?" he said, finally resting his eyes on the face of the boy who'd called him here.

For a long moment, Malfoy said nothing, as if wondering how to address his subject. Harry waited. His amusement increased, but he didn't intend to speak again. It might make him seem nervous or upset.

Malfoy was Sirius's cousin, he knew, but he really couldn't see a family resemblance in the face. Of course, he wouldn't have taken Narcissa Malfoy for Sirius's cousin, either. Harry entertained himself with the thought that early in childhood Narcissa had made a face of disgust and it had frozen that way, and she'd passed that expression on to her son. Certainly sneering came more naturally to Malfoy than any other expression.

"I need to know the truth, Potter," Malfoy demanded abruptly.

"Such a nice way of asking for it, too," Harry drawled, and Malfoy blinked at him. Harry fought to keep from rolling his eyes. "The truth about what? And I may or may not decide to tell you, you know."

"I need to know what you're studying with Professor Snape." Malfoy's hands tightened into fists. "He's supposed to be teaching _me_. And you're taking time away from that, and lately you're making him angry, so he's less competent when he teaches me."

Harry laughed in genuine amusement. "I dare you to say that to his face, Malfoy."

"That _doesn't matter._" Malfoy raked a shaking hand through his hair. "How long are you going to be studying with him, Potter?"

"I can tell you that," said Harry. "Not what we study. That's at his discretion. But the lessons will end at Christmas."

Malfoy studied him cautiously. "You seem very sure."

"I am." Harry saw no need to avoid that truth. The only other people who knew anything about dates or deadlines, Ron and Hermione, would confirm what he said if Snape asked them. "Right now, there are circumstances that keep me going to his detentions, or lessons, or whatever he's pleased to call them. But those circumstances will let up around Christmas."

For a long moment, Malfoy chewed his cheek and studied him. Then he said, "All right, Potter. I suppose I'll trust you." Harry fought back laughter again. "But I need these lessons and Professor Snape's time more than you do."

Harry studied him in boredom. He supposed Malfoy could be referring to surviving among the Death Eaters, which Harry would say Snape was training him to do if he had to guess. He wasn't that interested, though. Not only would Malfoy not have a Dark Lord to serve in a few weeks, but if he hadn't seen by now that Voldemort was a madman and not worth following, Harry didn't know what would prove it to him.

"All right," he said, and then turned and walked away from Malfoy. He entered the Transfiguration classroom to the scolding of McGonagall and the stricken looks of Ron and Hermione. It all felt very far away. A dull pain still struck him when he thought about what he'd said to his friends last night, but his determination was rapidly overwhelming it again.

"Mr. Potter! Are you listening to me?"

Harry looked up at his Head of House. "Of course, madam," he said calmly. "You said that I was to have detention with you tomorrow night at seven, and I've lost Gryffindor forty points."

McGonagall narrowed her eyes as if confused. Harry watched back with an expression of mild brightness. He didn't intend to slip up the way he had with his friends again. Since no one else knew him so well, they were unlikely to notice, but still. Harry _needed_ the constant vigilance Moody was always shouting about to ensure that he'd accomplish the only thing he cared about any more.

* * *

Potter strode out of lunch too quickly for Severus to send the suggestion potion, as well. Therefore, he did not wait with dinner. When Potter sat down at the Gryffindor table, he pulled the shrunken vial out of his pocket and cast the enchantments he'd prepared on it.

The vial squirmed in his palm, and then sprouted tiny dark legs. It crawled down his leg—Severus had to hold his face stern to avoid reacting to the tickling sensation it caused—and then vanished under the head table. If anyone saw it, they would probably assume it was an insect. Of course, that meant someone could crush or spell it before it reached the Gryffindor table, but that was a risk Severus had determined to take. He wanted the boy under the influence of the potion before he came to the lesson that night. He might not have much more time before he had to flee—apparently, from what Albus had told him, a captured Death Eater had confessed their orders to hunt down traitors, and Severus had already resisted one call through the Dark Mark—and if he had to control the boy from a distance, that was what he'd do.

He ate his dinner, but kept a subtle eye on the vial as it scuttled swiftly across the open floor in between the tables, and then vanished under the students' feet. He grimaced. One stamp in the right place would crush the glass and spill the potion, and though he had also spelled it to swiftly self-destruct if that happened, it would waste several days' work.

But then he saw it climbing up the leg of the Gryffindor table nearest Potter's glass of pumpkin juice, and hid his triumphant smile in the potatoes. The vial grew even smaller as it approached the glass, so that it wouldn't be swatted, and Severus lost sight of it. But he knew it would climb the outside of the cup, uncork itself with one of the legs, and dump the contents of the suggestion potion into Potter's drink. Since the potion itself was tasteless, he should swallow it without noticing anything different.

A soft chime sounded in Severus's ear: the spell he'd cast to let him know when the potion was done. He flicked his wand and used a nonverbal Summoning Charm to pull the tiny vial back to him. A quick movement of his hand, and it was in his robe pocket and he could go on eating.

Potter picked up his glass of pumpkin juice and took an absent drink.

Severus hid his grin behind his hand, and responded politely when Minerva asked him if he'd like more meat.

* * *

Harry had been wondering what Occlumency techniques he should practice before he confronted Snape tonight when his vision blurred and fuzzed around the edges. He set down his pumpkin juice at once and put a hand to his forehead. There was no burning in his scar, but otherwise, he felt the same kind of distance from his own body that he experienced in his visions before he learned to control them.

_What happened to me?_

It could be Voldemort reaching through the connection between them, but Harry thought he was experienced enough to sense the Occlumency walls coming down now; it was Legilimency Voldemort was wonderful at, not Occlumency. And there was no particular reason he'd have to do that now. Yet what else could it be? What could be significant about the timing of this happening at dinner?

_I just drank the pumpkin juice. It could be a potion._

Harry would have scoffed at his own paranoia last year, but now he knew he had more than one enemy, and if there were someone who could figure out a way to get a potion to him when no one else had been near his cup, it would be Snape. Harry didn't know what this potion did, but he wanted to be alone when it took effect. If it made him dangerous to people around him, that was a good reason for leaving. If it made something embarrassing happen, he wanted to deprive Snape of his laughter.

He rose to his feet, a hand on the edge of the table, and then wavered. The room had spun around him, and an inclination—he couldn't even call it a voice—in the back of his mind coaxed him to wait. Didn't he want to sit down and linger there until someone told him what to do? Wasn't that what he needed most, someone to command him?

_No_.

Perhaps if he'd been a little less determined to avenge Sirius's death, that would have sounded good to him. Someone to help, someone to take care of all those things he didn't want to pay attention to, someone to stand between him and everything but concentrating on his task…

But part of his penance was lasting through the months until he was able to die, and ensuring that no one suspected anything, as far as that was possible. He'd failed part of his task already. He wouldn't fail another. Whatever this potion was meant to make him do, he'd deprive Snape of the satisfaction of it.

He walked rapidly out of the Great Hall, and hesitated for a long moment, wondering which way he should go. And then he felt a small grin overcome his face, and turned in the direction of the Quidditch Pitch.

Snape could come after him if he liked. At least being far above him would give Harry the ability to escape his taunting.

* * *

Severus hissed under his breath; he couldn't be seen leaving the head table too soon after Potter did, or someone might suspect the truth. Draco had come to him this morning wailing about him spending too much time on Potter's lessons, not enough on Draco's own. Accusing eyes watched from every side, and the suspicions he had to evade grew thicker and thicker.

He had never thought that Potter would do anything but sit tamely at the Gryffindor table until Severus came to him and suggested he follow. It took an incredibly strong will to resist the potion. Madness would not do.

_Does that suggest he has a strong enough will to commit suicide? _

Severus impatiently banished the thought. It did not matter right now. What did was finding Potter while the potion still lingered in his system. It would enable Severus to give him commands and have them followed for two days after it was taken, but as the time wore on, the commands would come to seem less and less like Potter's own thoughts, and more like an outside will pressing on him. The very best time to establish his control was in the first hour after the potion was taken.

If Potter managed to evade him for that long…

He made his excuses and escaped as soon as he could, and drew his wand the moment he emerged into the entrance hall. A quick glance had told him that his hope, that Potter had simply stopped here to recover from the confusing effects of the potion, was unfulfilled. "_Point Me_ Harry Potter," he told his wand, as he had on that day he found Potter with the ingredients of the Medea's Draught.

The wand pointed straight out the front doors. Severus frowned and followed the pull. Had someone said something about the Forbidden Forest, and Potter taken that for a suggestion in his daze?

But when he stepped out of the school, the wand stood on its end. Severus looked up, and felt his lips tighten as he saw a figure circling far above him on a broom. Potter lay stretched out along the handle, probably trying to fight the hovering haze in his head.

Severus turned to quietly summon his own broom. In one way, the boy had done them both a favor. No one would hear what Severus told him or be aware of their private conference in the air.

* * *

Harry slowly opened his eyes. He could see someone mounting a broom beneath him, getting ready to fly up. He wouldn't have known who it was but for the robes snapping impressively around the figure.

_Snape. So he's going to chase me, is he?_

Harry urged his Firebolt higher, and higher still. He wasn't about to give up his independence and pride without a fight.

And he _knew_ he was the better flyer.

Harry grinned, though his lips felt numb as he did. _This should be fun._


	20. Obeying Orders

Thanks for the comments! One thing I can mention is that Snape is unlikely to simply ask Harry for the truth, because he thinks he knows the whole story already. He's arrogant like that.

_Chapter 20—Obeying Orders_

Severus snarled under his breath as the boy turned his broom towards the Forbidden Forest. One would think that he would want to circle the castle in his condition. Severus remembered well the first—and only—time he'd been incautious enough to drink something the older Slytherins offered him, and he'd found himself drifting at a distance from his body as he was ordered to get up on the Slytherin table at dinner and declare his undying love for Professor McGonagall.

Potter must feel like that. And yet, he was steady enough, or thought he was, to ride a broom _and_ overcome the potion's dreamy numbness, which usually kept a victim in one place and waiting for an order.

_He always has to be the exception, _Severus thought grimly, and then pushed more speed out of his unwilling broom, one of the school's Cleansweeps. It was true that he couldn't hope to match the Firebolt, but as long as Potter didn't take a sudden dive into the Forest's branches, he could keep him in sight.

And then, of course, Potter took a sudden dive into the Forest's branches.

Severus was beginning to wonder if the potion had actually created a telepathic link between them instead, and ensured that Potter would do the exact _opposite_ of everything Severus wanted him to do. But the only thing to do was find him. Albus would never forgive him if he got the Hero of Gryffindor torn to pieces. He hurried forward again, trying to calculate when he would be in reach to call out and force the boy to show himself.

* * *

Harry lay along a branch of a monstrous oak, his Firebolt pulled up beside him, and studied the sky. It wavered back and forth like a heat shimmer in his vision, and his own panting was hoarse in his ears. He hadn't wanted to fly anymore. He was sure he would fall or get sick at any moment.

But he _had_ to get away from the feeling pursuing him, the one that urged him to stop and wait for Snape. Merlin knew what Snape would make him do, but public embarrassment would probably be the least of it. And if it was something more than that, then it might bind Harry to Snape in obedience. And Snape's orders could take precedence even over his desire to complete his task.

_Maybe._

Harry had waged unceasing warfare with the stupid potion since it had entered his body, and he thought he could feel the mental effect lessening now, even as his vision and breathing grew worse, and the throbbing in his temples had turned into a headache. It was like a rope, he thought grimly. Rub it against something sharp long enough, and the bond ought to loosen. He had all the sharp things in his head that he could desire, from the edges of his Occlumency to his will. He would get through this eventually, and then he would go to Dumbledore and tell him what Snape had done. No, he didn't want the notice that would bring to what he'd been learning from the Potions Professor, but enough was enough. He hadn't thought Snape cared enough about what he did to want control over him like this, and he'd been wrong. The Siren Song was the only Occlumency technique he really wished he had more time to study with a partner, and he could learn more about Voldemort and the shape of Voldemort's mind from spying through their scar connection. This was the end of the lessons.

A dark shape swooped through the gap above him. Harry felt his body go stiff with anxiety, the way it used to when he could see Dudley and his friends approaching out of the corner of his eye.

The shape flew away, but it came back again, circling above the oak as if Snape knew that Harry had disappeared approximately here. Harry, his eyes never moving from it, and his mind in constant rebellion against the impulse to reveal himself, drew his wand.

He might only have practiced Occlumency and potions-brewing by choice in the last few months, but that didn't mean he'd lost his skill with other spells. Moody was an excellent teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts—when he was the real Moody, at least—and Harry advanced rapidly in his class.

Right now, he wanted mostly to keep Snape away from him and prevent him from coming close enough to issue orders. Whether Snape knew it was him after the fact didn't matter. Harry _had_ to get to the castle, wait for the worst effects of the potion to wear off, and then find Dumbledore.

He aimed his wand carefully at the gap in the branches.

* * *

Severus hovered, his eyes searching for some sign of the boy. Of course, he had been wearing dark robes, and the trees beneath him were nothing but dark trunks and boughs with the loss of their leaves, so that still made him difficult to find.

He thought he saw a gleam of metal on one, and opened his mouth to give the order that would force Potter to show himself.

A red-orange circle of light and heat soared up from the trees, rapidly expanding once it was in the open air. Severus had time to recognize it as one of the advanced shield charms, meant to defend its caster and inflict as much damage as possible on the enemy at the same time, but that didn't give him the time to fly out of the way, his brain being quicker than his body.

The shield flung him a considerable distance into the air, and when he could straighten out again, Severus smelled his robes burning. He cursed and drew his wand, casting a jet of water over the back of his broom, and then turned to look for signs of the delinquent.

He shot out of the middle of the trees like a rising bird, barely avoiding a branch that would have punched him through the guts if it had been in the right place, and whirled towards the castle. Severus snarled in satisfaction, even as he admired, unwilling, how well the brat flew. He could chase, and, this time, he would catch. The moment Potter took to foot again, he would be vulnerable.

And, judging from the way the broom in front of him wavered back and forth, he might not even make it that far.

Severus urged his broom faster.

* * *

_Merlin_, he was tired. But Harry refused to give in and drop like an insect for the old bat to pick up and mix into a potion.

Confused ideas of being a potion tomorrow darted through his head, and then he had to dismiss them as he found himself falling.

Luckily, he still had hold of his broom, but his slipping into a daydream had deprived the Firebolt of the will to fly forward. Harry slammed his hands down again, digging his fingers into the wood and wreathing them around each other, and then he was flying straight.

A glance back. Snape was closer than he'd been, closer than Harry had expected, given the power he'd put behind that shield. Of course, since he was still so dizzy and weak, the shield might not have been as strong as he thought, either.

Harry panicked.

* * *

Severus was a few hundred feet behind Potter when the boy apparently went mad.

The boy had plunged downwards for a few heart-stopping moments—Severus did _not_ want to have to heal the brat, or take him to the hospital wing and explain what had happened and why; Poppy would find the suggestion potion in his system at once—and then recovered, but now he wrapped himself around his broom and began making wild corkscrew turns, rolling to the left and no sooner coming upright than he did it again, and again, and again. That carried him away from Severus, across the grounds, back towards the Forbidden Forest at an oblique angle.

Severus looked ahead, estimating where he thought the brat would go, and then sped there. Sure enough, Potter was coming more or less towards him.

Severus tapped his throat with his wand and pitched his voice to carry, though hopefully only to Potter's ears. He hadn't used _Sonorus_ before because of who else might come out and hear him. "Potter. Calm down, and stop this nonsense at once. Fly to the ground, and wait for me there."

* * *

Harry could feel the wavering sky in his vision blot itself out.

What mattered were the words ringing in his head, telling him to land and listen and obey like a good boy. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? To obey? To have someone tell him what to do? He was so tired of making mistakes, of getting people killed, of doing stupid and silly things that wouldn't help him in the war.

And then his will rose up and slammed the thoughts away like a Beater's bat hitting a Bludger.

He _was_ doing what he could to make up for his mistakes. He knew he had made his last major choice, and he'd never have to make another one or justify it again. And no, he _did not want_ someone to tell him where he was going wrong and what he should do next. The Dursleys had been the only ones who ever volunteered for the position, and they stank at it. And the Professors at Hogwarts might give him lessons and instructions in their subject, but who had to save the school from Voldemort and Voldemort's servants again and again? The students.

The order went flying away from his mind. Harry hoped it hit Snape in the face and made him sorry, the greasy git.

His vision still danced in hazy strips, and he shivered and sweated as if he had a fever. He glanced up, adjusted his position relative to Gryffindor Tower, and flew towards it as much as possible.

* * *

Severus stared after Potter, incredulous. It was _impossible_ that the boy had will enough to both fly a broom and disobey his orders. It was something that _he_ might not have found it impossible to do, perhaps, but not Potter.

But he'd just done it.

Severus felt a stirring of interest in spite of himself. Every time he thought he understood the boy, Potter did something like this. Severus had promised he wouldn't underestimate him again, but Potter insisted on having unexpected depths. Severus was beginning to wonder what he _couldn't_ do, other than brew potions and agree to what was best for him.

He leisurely followed the boy. The mental effort to disobey the potion had obviously taken a lot out of Potter. From the angle of his broom, he would land on the Astronomy Tower in a moment, and Severus could easily catch him there, soothe him with another order to calm, and then guide him down into his offices and give him some choice orders. The suggestion potion was one means of ensuring that Potter still did what Severus wanted even after he was gone, and giving him a loyal agent or a puppet, as it were, to spy on and influence the course of the war.

Too late, he realized that Potter hadn't chosen the Astronomy Tower as his destination at all, but Gryffindor Tower. He watched in wordless rage as Potter spiraled around the tower, chose one window out of those that peered over the grounds, and slipped inside.

Severus snarled, and hovered for a moment, pondering what he should do. Dinner would end soon, and someone would be sure to miss him. And the suggestion potion would still be in force tomorrow, though his orders would seem more disagreeable to the boy. If necessary, Severus could give Potter another dose. Careful as he was, Severus doubted Potter had thought to protect himself against the kind of delivery mechanism for the potion he'd chosen.

Severus sighed and flew towards the front of the school, to put his broom back in its usual place and lend force to the lie that he'd only gone flying for pleasure.

* * *

Harry collapsed on his bed, shaking and panting. All his roommates were still at dinner, but he felt sure someone would come back in a moment and ask what was wrong, and Harry would have to tell them. He flicked his wand, locked the door, and then lay back, staring at the canopy of his bed.

His breath rushed and rattled in his ears, but worse than that was the rage. For the first time since he'd understood that Sirius's death was his fault, Harry really felt as if he could blame someone else, scream and shake him. Didn't Snape _understand_ that Harry was doing what he could to make up for his mistake, and he'd fulfill the debt soon? He didn't mean to put it off forever. He'd just wanted to wait long enough to brew the potion he needed and get better at the Occlumency techniques.

That was all. He really was going to die. He knew he had the courage and the will to drink the potion and suffer through the pain. He would do it. He just needed a little time first.

He shut his eyes, and that helped some, the feeling that he might sleep soon and didn't constantly have to watch the world around him in order to resist an order from anyone else. He'd almost drifted off when someone tried the door, and there was a muffled chatter of voices outside it. Harry opened his eyes, but even his ears felt heavy, and he couldn't understand a word they said.

Then someone else knocked, and a clear, authoritative voice said, "Harry Potter, you open this door _right now!_"

Harry found himself rising to obey the order automatically. His reserves of will had given out. _Bloody good thing that Snape didn't catch me like this, _he thought, as he jerked open the door and confronted his staring friends.

Hermione frowned at him and folded her arms. "What happened?" she demanded.

Luckily, she hadn't said something like, "Tell us everything that happened," and so Harry could give in to the promptings of the potion but still give her a modified version of the truth.

"Snape slipped me a potion of some kind," he said, and clenched a hand on the side of the door to keep himself from falling. "Made me dizzy, and made me feel like I had to obey him. I ran away and got on my broom." He nodded to his Firebolt, which leaned against the windowsill, and then hastily caught at his stomach. Even the simple motion of his head had made him feel like he was about to vomit. "He chased me into the Forbidden Forest, and then back here."

Hermione reached out, putting a hand on his forehead, and then fearlessly smelled his breath. Harry saw her face change, but his vision was darkening, lightning bolts of shadow striking in and out, and he couldn't read her expression.

"It's suggestion potion," Hermione said. "I can brew a counter, but the best thing for right now is to rest, Harry." She muttered something else, but Harry didn't make it out. He was mostly aware of her helping him across the room to his own bed, making him lie down, taking his glasses, and then drawing the curtains around him. Then she said a second thing Harry couldn't catch, either, but which made Ron say, in a voice somewhere between impressed and horrified, "All _right_, Hermione. We won't disturb him."

Harry sighed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. Telling Dumbledore would have to wait until later.

* * *

Severus noticed the smug expression around the corners of the Granger girl's eyes when she came into the N.E.W.T. Potions class the next day, but his thoughts were more on the new draught of suggestion potion bubbling in his office. He could leave the class alone with the potion they'd be brewing today, and vanish to tend it soon.

And then the door of the classroom opened, and Albus leaned in and said, mild as possible, "May I see you for a moment, Severus?"

The students probably didn't see anything out of the ordinary in the request. But Severus could see the tight wrinkles of anger around his mentor's eyes, and knew they only appeared when he was deadly angry.

As he made his way towards the back of the room, wondering, he caught the Granger girl's gaze again. She lifted her chin and gave him a smirk that would have done Draco credit.

Suddenly, Severus understood. And suddenly, he was not pleased at all.


	21. Dumbledore's Disappointment

Thanks again for the reviews! This chapter does make a difference in the relationship between Severus and Harry, though not necessarily a nice one.

_Chapter 21—Dumbledore's Disappointment_

Severus held his head high as he walked towards Albus's office beside the Headmaster. After all, what did he have to be ashamed of? He had done the right thing in all his school terms. He had taught his students as best he knew how. He had been Albus's loyal little spy. He had tried and tried to save Potter's life no matter how much the foolish boy insisted on risking it.

He wove those thoughts into the fabric of his mind, and by the time he settled in front of the desk and refused a cup of tea and a lemon sherbet, he believed in them as much as he believed in most things. His Potions ability, the stupidity of Gryffindors in general and Potters in particular, and his own superiority in most areas of life were more important to him, but of course they would be.

"Miss Granger brought an alarming story to me this morning," Dumbledore began, his voice deep and as lined, in some ways, as his face. He folded his fingers in front of him. "I'm sure that you have reasons for what you did, Severus, but it seems that you forced a suggestion potion unwilling on a student."

"Of course I did, Headmaster." Severus kept his voice bland and his face just slightly offended. "If he had known it was coming, he would have been prepared to resist it. I wanted him unprepared."

"Resist it, Severus?"

"Yes." Severus folded his hands in front of him and studied them, with the air of a patient man condemned to suffer because everyone insisted on misunderstanding his motives. "I wanted to see if he could function and battle me in the most oppressive situations, such as having a suggestion potion interfering with his responses. He may never encounter the analogous situation in a battle with the Dark Lord, but he will surely encounter the influence of obedience spells. The Imperius Curse, for example—"

"Harry can throw off the Imperius Curse," Albus said, quietly.

Severus felt his next lie catch in his throat. _Damn it. _He might even have known that at one point, but he truly could not remember. There were too many things to know, about Potter and his own occupation, and he would not have remembered one as well that spoke of some unusual talent in Potter.

"If you had gained Harry's trust, he would have told you that," Albus said. "Therefore, I can only think this test was conducted without his knowledge in more ways than one, and without the slightest concern for his welfare."

"I do not want him dead," Severus said, truthfully enough. _Dead, he could not serve me. _"He has to defeat the Dark Lord."

"He is more important to many of us in more ways than you will ever know," Albus continued steadily. "And—well, Severus. I sent you to try to get close to him, to understand him. I should have remembered how horribly prejudiced you are against the boy. You cannot understand him, because you will not look over your own barriers and past his father's face."

Severus ground his teeth. The worst of it was that he couldn't even say Albus was completely wrong. The brat had effectively hidden all signs of Occlumency, partly of his own accord, but also because Severus was more interested in finding humiliating memories than training him.

"I apologize, Headmaster," he said. "I was making progress in testing the boundaries of his gift, however, and how well he can defend his mind. I will be glad to continue those lessons."

"I do not trust you with him," Albus said.

Severus reared back, his nostrils flaring, before he was able to prevent himself. But then he did not say a word. He had known this day would come, and had half-expected it, in fact, ever since he stopped spying.

"I wonder how far I can trust you with any of them," Albus pursued, his voice sinking to a whisper. "I wonder? If you would let your grudge against a student drive you to give him a suggestion potion and endanger his life and sanity when he climbed onto his broom, what else might you do?"

Severus watched his eyes, and did not rise to the bait. They both knew what this was: Albus's excuse for doing something he must have wanted to do for some time now. The speech, and the worn expression on his face, were for the sake of the Pensieve if one was required, and nothing else. Someone else would watch this scene and see how much Albus grieved at the memory.

"You must remain at Hogwarts, of course," Albus said. "I cannot find another Potions professor at such short notice. And the wards protect you from the Death Eaters hunting you." He said that last as if he had forgotten it and needed to be reminded, shaking his head.

_And so it comes. _

Severus felt not so much pain as a curious numbness. His affection for Albus had been eroding steadily in the last few years—almost since Harry Potter arrived at the school, in fact, and he saw how little Albus really valued Slytherins compared with Gryffindors, how little he valued teachers' and other students' lives compared with Potter's. Severus could have given the suggestion potion to another student, and he thought he would not have been punished as severely.

Once, such as when he first came to Albus in a panic of conscience and the man gave him sanctuary from the Death Eaters, he would never have thought he could feel this way. But his self at that point could not have seen the future.

He rose to his feet and inclined his head. "I understand, Headmaster. I will strengthen the wards on my home, and prepare to go there as soon as the Christmas holidays end."

Albus sighed. "I am sorry to have to do this to you, my boy. I know that Hogwarts was your first true home."

"Yes." Severus didn't try to enlighten him about that, though, because Albus would never understand why. He thought home had something to do with a sense of comfort and safety, and that wasn't it at all. At school, for the first time, Severus had encountered people who could match wits with him, people unlike his dull Muggle father. His mother might have been able to do it, at least if his inherited intelligence was any indication, but she had spent most of his childhood crying, and hiding her cleverness, as so many Muggle women had had to do down the ages, to avoid offending his father.

There could never have been any House but Slytherin for him. Cleverness must have an outlet, and for him that had been plotting.

"Thank you, my boy." Albus gazed at him musingly for a moment, then shook his head. "I suppose I must try to gain Harry's trust, and hope that he will confess what he knows to me." Severus suppressed laughter manfully, and stood there, since it seemed the Headmaster still had something to say. "There is nothing you observed that might be of use?"

"You have just accused my observations of being worthless," Severus answered, amused in spite of himself.

"But you may have learned something valuable without knowing that you learned it," Albus said, leaning forward and staring at him.

Severus easily batted away the Legilimency probe touching his shields, irritated that the old man would try it. He would have had more respect for Albus if he simply asked, instead of always trying to take.

He did think of telling Albus about the darkness in Potter's eyes, the faint smile when he caught him staring out the corridor window at the moon, the crushing despair associated with memories of his Muggle relatives' home. And then he shrugged. Why should he? Those were memories he himself had won from Potter in their struggle. He did not share his prize potions ingredients, and he saw no need to share this information that might still be of value to him. Granted, it was hard to see _how_, since he would have to leave Hogwarts without placing Potter under another suggestion potion—Albus would make sure of that—but it still might be.

At least, it was of value in spiting Albus.

"Nothing that would make sense, I'm sure," he said.

"Dismissed then, Severus," Albus said, with the sad sound of disappointed affection in his voice. "And please send Harry to me."

_Full of uses for me until the last, _Severus thought, and went away. His mind was soon full of plans for strengthening the wards on Bolthole.

He almost looked forward to the end of Christmas holidays. It would mean that he could stop thinking about Albus and Potter and consider his own future in more detail, outside the school.

* * *

Harry took his seat in Dumbledore's office with his shields locked tight around his mind. He had no way of knowing what Snape had told the Headmaster, and that meant he would have to be on his guard against anything, even the most innocent remark, which might give him away.

"Harry, my boy!" The Headmaster had offered him both tea and sweets; he'd declined both. Now it seemed there was nothing left but pleasantries. He folded his hands and beamed at Harry. "How are you?"

"Better now that the suggestion potion's worn off, sir," said Harry, and made an effort to lean back in his seat, smile, and seem relaxed and open. He had to fight down his irritation. Either Ron or Hermione watched him all the time now, and he couldn't be sure if that was because they feared another suggestion potion getting to him, as they said, or because they wanted to know his secrets. _Why can't people just leave me alone and let me get on with my destiny? _"I suppose that you've talked to Professor Snape about that, though, and don't need my testimony."

"Miss Granger has told me the truth." Dumbledore gazed at him keenly. "Have your lessons with Professor Snape been valuable to you, Harry?"

Harry gave a little shrug. "In terms of practical content, yes, sir. But I think he's a bad teacher for me in the sense of making me love the subject."

A surprised chuckle slipped from Dumbledore. At least, it was meant to sound surprised. Harry wouldn't have laid bets as to whether he really was. "Ah, yes. That has always been a deficiency with our dear Severus." For a moment, his hands toyed with his own teacup. Then he leaned forward. "I suppose you should know that Professor Snape will be leaving school at the end of the Christmas holidays, for this and—other things."

The first thought that popped into Harry's head was, _Only at the end of the Christmas holidays? Then he could still stop me. I'll have to be very careful about where I go and what I reveal._

Then he reminded himself he didn't want to think about that too closely, as he might show agitation, and his goal was not showing agitation. He had to react as calmly as he could while these eyes were on him—Dumbledore's eyes, Ron and Hermione's eyes, and probably Snape's, since Harry didn't expect the man to give up watching him just because he couldn't teach him anymore. But in a week or so, Dumbledore would look elsewhere, he'd arrange another small argument with Ron and Hermione, and Snape would probably have more to worry about than Harry.

"Thank you for telling me, sir," he said, and bowed his head. "I'd already thought that I didn't want to continue lessons with him. He says—well, things that make me uncomfortable. He seems to delight in inflicting pain on me, even when the pain isn't of use in my learning." He pondered telling Dumbledore about the wave of power with which Snape had threatened to crush his mind, and then decided he couldn't, because he'd have to reveal how he escaped it, and the Pensieve incident was still a secret between him and Snape. "Can you find another Potions Professor, though?"

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore agreed amiably. "Potions masters as skilled as Professor Snape are not common, but wizards with some talent for potions are not rare on the ground. And the position is not cursed as that of Defense Against the Dark Arts is, so I should have no trouble finding someone to fill it." He paused thoughtfully, and then said, "Perhaps you would like to continue your Occlumency training with me, Harry."

_No way in hell._

But Harry just smiled at him. "I don't think that would be wise right now, sir," he said. "I've spent too much time training on just Occlumency alone. Now I want to concentrate on some of the spells Professor Moody's been teaching me."

"An excellent idea, my boy." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but then he leaned forward and seemed to grow serious. "Remember, though, how tempting the Dark Arts can be. Never start walking down that path, Harry."

"I won't," Harry said softly. He fought the urge to snort. _Even if I wanted to, it's not as though I'd have time to corrupt myself._

Dumbledore nodded and sat back, and he and Harry spent the rest of the visit lightly talking about subjects that no longer much concerned Harry: his marks in Transfiguration, the Gryffindor Quidditch team, a possible future career as an Auror. He knew they'd mattered, once, and so he kept up a pretense of interest in them, but they lay on one side of a thick fog, and he was on the other.

The same thing had happened with Ron and Hermione, he thought, after he'd bid Dumbledore good-bye and was riding down the moving staircase. He knew he'd felt pity for them at one time, and last year he couldn't have imagined spending as much time wanting them to go away as he did now, except when he sulked or raged. But it was as though all his pity had gone to Sirius, and he simply had none to spare for anyone else anymore.

Ron waited for him near the gargoyle. Harry sighed inwardly and pasted a cheerful smile on his face. _A week, or a week and a day. Then I can fight with them._

"Hi, mate," Ron said, and fell easily into step with him. "What did Dumbledore say?"

Harry shrugged. "He told me that that was the last straw, and Snape's going to be leaving school after the Christmas holidays."

Ron stopped, staring at him. Then he let out a whoop that echoed up and down the halls, and punched a fist into the air.

Harry grabbed his arm. "But I don't think he really wants anyone to know yet," he hissed, "so you'd better keep your voice down."

"Sorry." Ron dropped his arm, looking more than usually sheepish. "It's just—that's great news, Harry! Isn't it? Why don't you look more excited?" he added, in that thoughtful chess-player's tone Harry was growing to dread.

"Just a headache from the suggestion potion," Harry lied.

"Then come and lie down," Ron said briskly, and dragged Harry towards Gryffindor Tower. "You have leave to be out of classes today, remember? Even though Madam Pomfrey didn't say you had to stay in the hospital wing. So you should rest." He shuddered theatrically. "Hermione would—would do some really disgusting things if I didn't make you rest. Seriously, Harry. You didn't hear her."

Harry ground his teeth, but went along as patiently as possible. Only a short time, and he'd be free. And he supposed it comforted Ron to do this for him.

But still. The more reminders he received that other people wanted him to have a future, the angrier he got. He'd _chosen_ his future. It was simply too bad that he couldn't tell anyone else that, for fear they'd disagree, and try to Stun him and send him to St. Mungo's.

As they passed a side-corridor, the sensation of eyes on him made him look up. Ron, still chattering happily and pulling at his arm, didn't notice.

Snape leaned on the wall of the corridor and watched him, arms folded, eyes deeper and more thoughtful than Harry had seen them since he'd returned to Hogwarts. Almost—less clouded by contempt, somehow.

Harry glanced sharply away. It was a wonder, and a bother, to him why Snape persisted in caring about what happened to him.


	22. Their Own Affairs

Thanks again for the reviews! This chapter covers quite a bit of time, so tomorrow is one of the decisive chapters of the story.

_Chapter 22—Their Own Affairs_

"You _will not _improve if you cannot learn left-handed casting, Mr. Malfoy," Severus said, stalking in a circle, so that Draco turned to follow him as he moved. And he was looking at his face, of course, watching his mouth, which made Severus disgruntled, but which he would learn better from in a moment. "That is one of the subtler and more flexible tools in a Dark wizard's arsenal. And if you cannot learn to keep on the alert—"

A flick from his wand, and Draco crumpled, legs caught in a complicated rope that began to burn at his skin as it pressed through the cloth. Draco cried out, but couldn't seem to remember the counterspell. Severus shook his head and freed him, then leaned against his desk as his student stood up again.

"But it's unfair to expect me to learn everything at once," Draco argued, brushing dust off his robes as if that would somehow distract Severus from his face being the color of a ripe cherry.

"You are not trying to learn everything 'at once,' Mr. Malfoy," Severus reminded him. "You have _had_ months. And combining skills is nothing new to you. You have done it before in Potions and, I am certain, other classes. It is really nothing more than _thinking_ and acting at the same time. I know you can accomplish this."

"I need more time," Draco insisted.

Severus looked at him with cold eyes and didn't respond. The boy exasperated him more and more lately. One reason he wasn't improving was that he didn't _practice_ outside the lessons, even something as simple as casting tiny spells with his wand in his left hand, harmless spells every student could use, to improve his use of the curses when the time came. He thought he could impress others in the Slytherin common room with his tales of the dark and dangerous things he learned, lie about, and have the knowledge appear in his head.

Severus had known Draco to be many things, but never _lazy_. And while, in the beginning of the year, he had thought anxiously about his mother's fate and had seemed to consider seriously whether he should follow the Dark Lord or withdraw from his ranks, he had become complacent again as his mother's health continued to improve. Losing the Dark Lord's favor for himself, and suffering the consequences, did not seem to have occurred to him.

Though he no longer cared much about Albus, Severus was nearly glad that he could not persuade the boy to the Light now. He would not get on there. Albus would expect things of him he couldn't give, and in the end they would have had a sniveling traitor on their hands.

Draco would probably attach himself to someone else in the Death Eaters and manage to survive when Severus was gone. Severus had not told him he was going, of course. Merlin alone knew how Draco would have interpreted that, and whom he would have told, and how he would have told them. Yes, Severus could have tried to guide his interpretation of it, but no art of that kind was as safe as withholding the knowledge until the last moment.

Realizing no words of praise were forthcoming, Draco gave a long-suffering sigh and lifted his wand. "I'm ready when you are, sir," he said sulkily.

Severus used the dueler's bow, and, of course, Draco fell for it and bowed, so that Severus could send a spell at him in the middle of it. He had to shake his head. _Did_ Draco care? Or had the impression reality produced on him during the summer faded already, as he moved through the unnaturally peaceful world of Hogwarts?

He was curious about the answer, but it did not really matter, either way. He had his own affairs to tend.

In the moments when he could give himself to idle curiosity, he preferred to contemplate Potter. The boy appeared to think he'd given up watching, and his behavior made him more and more fascinating. Severus did not know what would happen, but he was content now to stand back and watch what did, instead of trying to influence it.

* * *

Harry carefully cast the spell he'd found in the same book as Oddivarius's Charm, and then took his wand on his palm and closed his eyes. "_Point Me _Ginny Weasley," he said clearly.

When he looked again, the wand spun madly, aimlessly, in the center of his palm. Harry had used a lock of Ginny's hair and shredded it as he cast the charm. That confused the _Point Me _spell, and for an hour or so, no one would be able to use that incantation to locate Ginny. It wouldn't last very long, but when the crisis came, he planned to use that spell so no one could follow him.

_I'm surrounded by inconveniently curious people, after all._

Harry sighed as he returned his wand to his pocket. He was in an obscure corner of the library, behind the Divination books, that Hermione hadn't found yet because of her own uninterest in the subject. It was the first week of December, and he had to juggle his schedule madly to avoid conflict with his classes, convince Ron and Hermione he was spending enough time with them, and justify his chosen course by improvements in his skill.

He had chosen to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays instead of returning to the Dursleys', for a variety of reasons. For one thing, he'd never been eager to return to his relatives' home before, and the Headmaster—not to mention his friends—would pay more attention if he asked to do that. Also, he'd have to use some magic, and he could do that easily without being found out at Hogwarts. If he died in his relatives' house, no one would know what from, and no one would be certain Voldemort was dead. At Hogwarts, they could find out what had happened more easily, and not have to panic that he'd killed himself without fulfilling his destiny. And there was the chance that the flames Medea's Draught created would hurt the Dursleys' house, while they couldn't spread at Hogwarts.

The real, simple, selfish reason, though, was that he wanted to die at home, and this was home.

Harry reached out and touched the wall next to him for a moment, then turned back to his work. Dying at home required practice of spells that would give him an edge, should someone become concerned about him. His next tactic was to master a glamour charm that would create an illusion of himself. The illusion would walk out of the castle and towards the lake at the same time that Harry planned to go to the Astronomy Tower on Christmas Eve and begin the Siren Song. It wouldn't fool his friends for long, but it didn't have to. And then the charm that defeated _Point Me_, and other spells Harry planned to cast, would keep them from effectively searching while he did his duty.

He patted the vial of Medea's Draught in his pocket again, and bent over the glamour charm.

* * *

Severus glanced once around Bolthole. He'd transferred most of his books and potions ingredients to the small house, though he'd gathered up other, older ones and put them into place in his office so that it didn't look barren and inspire questions from Draco or the students who came to see him during detentions. He'd also spent nearly a solid week strengthening the wards. He would do more of that, but finally the house was beginning to look like a home instead of a mere shelter.

There were only seven rooms; larger homes were not required for a man who had managed to live comfortably in dungeon quarters at Hogwarts, and, in any case, they would have been harder to defend, requiring more spreading out of wards. He had a potions lab underground, away from the rest of the house, where rising fumes or explosions would not trouble them as much. There were also the library, a loo, an indoor greenhouse and garden, a kitchen at which a single house-elf he'd securely bound to him worked, his bedroom, and a room Severus had first thought of blocking up, but had finally decided would serve as his study, or a place to write his correspondence to Potions masters all over the world. When and if he met with them in person, he could fit it up impressively to receive them.

And that, other than the flights of staircases, was all.

Severus gave a short nod. It suited him better than the cold stone he'd lived in for many years, and he would enjoy not being at Albus's beck and call any more.

He touched the Portkey on the button of his robes and whisked back to Hogwarts, landing neatly in the middle of his own rooms. Albus had no idea that Bolthole existed. He thought Severus was taking a room above the Leaky Cauldron until he could make Spinner's End more secure. Severus smiled thinly. At least it gave the man a distraction.

He had done his duty for the evening, so he could satisfy his pleasure now: Potter-watching. Quietly, he located the boy with the _Point Me_ spell, and then stood outside the library until he left. He didn't wear his Invisibility Cloak. He no longer seemed to think he needed it, since he wasn't sneaking about trying unsuccessfully to brew a poison or avoiding his friends.

He had the faint, fixed smile on his face again, which had become more and more common the longer the weeks wore on. Severus stared hard into his eyes as he passed, unaware of someone watching him, and then nodded. The shadows, or the horrors, which made them dark were darker yet this evening. Severus wondered idly if the boy's nightmares had resumed.

Then he shook his head, and glided quietly after Potter. The boy was so involved in whispering the names of spells over to himself that he didn't seem to notice, though Severus was prepared for him to spin around and confront him at any time.

_Dangerous, Potter. Were I truly a servant of the Dark Lord, I could grab you and bring you to him right now._

Then Potter halted and said, in a perfectly calm voice, without looking over his shoulder, "I know you're there, Professor Snape."

Severus did not see that this was worth responding to. He halted and waited in silence, wanting Potter to face him.

"I know what you want," Potter whispered. He seemed to think that if Severus did not have to say anything, he did not have to face him. "Some sign I'm breaking down, faltering without your teaching. You won't have it. I'm getting on well enough without you."

Severus still did not say anything. Let the boy dash himself against a wall of imagined retorts. The more he said without being guided, the more Severus had a chance to learn about him.

His curiosity about Potter had changed in the past few weeks, he had to admit. Now he did not see the boy as a servant so much as someone who _might_ be useful, if he could only figure out the way. And now he had the leisure to understand the boy on his own time, without having to brew the Dark Lord's counter-serum and report to Dumbledore at the same time. He would teach Draco until the day he departed, but his mind had much more free time.

And he wanted to understand Potter the same way he wanted to understand a potion that he had prepared carefully and which had exploded anyway. He had been as wise as he could. He could trace no mistake of his that might have caused this particular result. What had? What in the hidden, incredibly imbecilic—or what he had assumed to be the incredibly imbecilic—depths of Potter's brain was the answer for the way he was acting?

That answer wasn't a matter of life and death to Severus, not anymore, but perhaps it mattered more because of that, and not less. Soon he would have a life where he could investigate matters of intellectual interest and curiosity—a fuller life, where his every instinct was not turned to survival. Comprehending Potter's strange actions would not be a bad first investigation of that life.

Potter laughed.

Severus snapped out of his musings. The sound echoed up and down the corridor, hoarse and dry, and it took him a moment to remember why it was so familiar. He had not heard the Dark Lord laugh like that, though he thought he had. No, it was a Ravenclaw boy who'd cast an Entrail-Expelling Curse on himself—one of the other rare successful suicide cases.

_Yet why would the boy kill himself? I still do not think he would deprive his friends of his obnoxious presence, nor die without destroying the Dark Lord._

_On the other hand, if he could destroy himself and the Dark Lord at the same time…_

Severus did not see how he planned to accomplish that, of course. But it was an interesting possibility. He would let Potter run a little longer, like a clockwork toy, and see what happened.

"Silence," Potter said cheerfully. "Silence isn't a good sign with you, Snape. When you're upset or you think you know what's going on, you rage. When you don't, you keep silent."

Severus took a deep breath and put away the insults that rose to his lips. Mindlessly responding to the boy's taunts had got him into trouble before. He would not react, this time.

Potter snorted, and then swished his Invisibility Cloak over him with a sudden movement. A moment later, his footsteps faded, and though Severus could have followed him, he had no certain means of telling where Potter had gone, and certainly no way of seeing his face.

He pursued his own path back to the dungeons, silent and thoughtful still. Yes, Potter could have been in danger of suicide, but there were still too many things that didn't make sense, like the way he'd labored to perfect the Siren Song, and the way he would leave his friends behind, and the way he'd avoided Albus's numerous invitations to talk and disburden himself of his depression, which was out of character with many people contemplating suicide as Severus understood them. If he was mad, of course there were answers for that, but then, if he were mad, he might do anything, and it wouldn't necessarily include killing himself.

Severus shook his head briskly as he shut the door of his office behind him. He almost disliked that he was going to depart after the Christmas holidays and then could no longer watch what Potter was doing.

* * *

Among the other spells he'd become good at in the past few weeks was silencing charms. Harry had enacted one almost without a thought on the door of the loo just before his rebelling stomach sent him to his knees and made him vomit into one of his toilets. He'd ventured into Voldemort's mind for the night again, and this time he'd watched as a witch was flayed alive, beginning at her face and moving on to her groin. He'd paid attention to Voldemort's emotions, of course, more than the physical happenings, but his body still didn't like it. He hardened himself as much as he could, but, as if Voldemort had anticipated that, the "entertainments" grew worse and worse. Harry supposed he sought to intimidate the wizards and witches still fighting him. The skinless corpse would probably be left in a place where the witch's friends or family could easily find it.

When he'd finished expelling his stomach, he leaned his head on the cool metal of a sink and closed his eyes. He could feel a smile darting around his lips, despite everything.

He was learning more and more about Voldemort's mind with each venture. His spells were as good as they'd ever get. His Occlumency, including the Siren Song and the Beholding technique, had improved out of all recognition. Snape paid attention to his own affairs and left Harry alone save for idle curiosity.

And, best of all, tomorrow the Christmas holidays began.

Harry rose steadily to his feet and patted the vial of Medea's Draught, which never left him now. _Three more nights._


	23. Christmas Eve

Thanks for the reviews! As you'll see by the title of this chapter, we've arrived at something of a turning point.

**Note: **this chapter is non-linear. I've tried to make each section individually intelligible, but it may take some work to figure out how they all hang together in time.

_Chapter 23—Christmas Eve_

Harry carefully shredded a lock of his own hair as he murmured the incantation he'd found in the book with Oddivarius's Charm. Then he laid his wand on his hand. "_Point Me_ Harry Potter," he whispered.

When he'd tried this spell with his own name yesterday, the wand had pointed unhesitatingly at his heart. Now it wavered, pointed at him, and then turned around and began to spin in random circles, sometimes lurching to a stop and pointing at the wall, as though that direction were as good as any other.

Harry smiled and tucked his wand back into his pocket. He didn't actually know if he'd need this spell, since no one might notice he was missing from dinner in time to come look for him, and, even if they did, they'd probably try the grounds first, since his illusion had strode in that direction. But it was nice to have a precaution, and another task vanished from the list in his head.

He turned to look at his trunk as he drew the Invisibility Cloak over his head. At the bottom of the trunk were his guardianship papers, locked in an envelope. When Ron and Hermione, or whoever might decide to investigate his possessions after his death, opened it, they'd find them unsigned, utterly unmarked other than by the crumpling and folding as Harry took them in and out of his robe pockets.

He was going to die as he hadn't managed to live: free, without a chance of hurting those who said they were his guardians or that they would die to protect him.

He hummed as he made his way out of the room. When that unknown person looked through his trunk, they'd find another sealed envelope, too: his will, written on that evening in August when he'd first understood exactly what he was doing.

_

* * *

_

_I, Harry Potter, have decided to leave my possessions as I see fit. _

_My snowy owl, Hedwig, was a gift from my first friend, Rubeus Hagrid. It's only appropriate that he should have her to take care of. _

Harry had explained the arrangements to Hedwig when he wrote that line, stroking her feathers and receiving the soft nibble of her beak along his finger in return. She had seemed gravely approving. Harry didn't think she realized that his death wasn't one that might happen sometime in the far future, but something that would occur, of a certainty, at a date of his choosing.

* * *

His chance to cast the glamour charm came at dinner. Ron and Hermione had, for once, broken their silent agreement to watch Harry and do nothing else, including monitoring all the bits of food on his plate and where they went, to quarrel. Harry couldn't make out what the quarrel was really about: Ron not doing his Charms homework, or something before that for which the Charms homework was just an excuse. Either way, he was sure they hadn't noticed when he cast the spell with his wand in his hand under the table and the non-verbal incantation in his head.

A shadowy figure had formed behind him, no more than that until Harry stood up and walked out of the Great Hall. Then he drew his Invisibility Cloak over his head. With him out of sight, the ghostly double of himself firmed and strengthened, and when Harry turned, he could watch it walk right through the doors of the entrance hall and out into the extremely cold night, in full sight of a few Hufflepuff students who'd remained for the Christmas holidays. They could tell anyone asking after Harry Potter where he'd gone, and that was all Harry required.

He went in silence and swiftness to the Gryffindor Tower to begin making the last of the preparations.

* * *

_My Firebolt was a gift from my godfather Sirius Black, and is mine to give away. I want it go to Ron Weasley. Ron, you were my best mate. I hope this broom will enable you to win dozens of Quidditch games._

* * *

Earlier that day, Harry had carefully cast the most dangerous set of spells—dangerous because, useful though they were, there was a chance they would attract unfortunate attention before tonight. He'd taken the time and trouble to learn the name of each person staying in the castle. That meant he could tune these charms to them.

Each time he cast the spell in a remote corner of the castle, he whispered a name at the end of the incantation, as he would have for the Summoning Charm. The air in front of him turned glassy, and then became a hanging cobweb, to all appearances. Filch might sneer and smack them down with the broom if he saw them, but no one else should bother. Harry was mostly afraid that they'd call the people they were tuned to in a few minutes, instead of a few hours.

A connection between the cobwebs and the people they were tuned to would spring up the moment they thought intensely about finding Harry Potter. They would feel strangely compelled to go to the obscure corners of the castle Harry had chosen, sure he'd be found there. Thus Harry made them as obscure as he could: abandoned classrooms, supply closets, an alcove at the top of a staircase to the third floor that looked as if it could contain a secret passage but didn't, really. His friends would wait here, or McGonagall would, or Malfoy would, or Snape would, staring and peering in vain.

Harry gave a smile that was half melancholy and half a sneer, and then went on with his preparations. Really, those were the spells that they should be most grateful for. It was likely to spare them the discovery of his body until long after the worst was over and the Medea's Draught had completely destroyed him.

He patted the vial of poison in his robe pocket, and went on.

_

* * *

_

_I leave the Invisibility Cloak to Hermione Granger. I know I couldn't trust anyone else with it, Hermione. You'll use it to commit just enough mischief, and only when the mischief is really important. Goodbye, Hermione. I hope you do become Minister of Magic, or free all the house-elves in the world. It would match with what you're able to do._

* * *

Harry had practiced Beholding until he could do it in his sleep. He knew the Siren Song as well as he could, because he knew Voldemort's mind as well as he could. Just last night he'd watched in silence as Voldemort tortured a man's family in front of him, slowly, and then put the man under Imperius and made him rape them.

Voldemort had to be stopped. The cost couldn't be too high, at least as long as it came from people committed to fighting him, and not those innocent lives he was already being permitted to take. The way Harry saw it, he could get away with his crimes. Neither the Ministry, alert though it was, nor Dumbledore could do much until they actually defeated _him_, Tom Riddle, the main source of the problem. They could only arrest individual Death Eaters and clean up after individual raids.

They needed a strong champion determined to do anything to destroy Voldemort, even if it cost his life.

And Harry was that champion.

His mind was open and ready, like a plain of stone swept by wind and rain, his step light and containing a spring, as he began the walk to the Astronomy Tower.

* * *

Tight locking and warding charms covered his trunk right now, but they would vanish with his death. Harry hoped that, if someone _did_ come back to his room looking for him, they'd spend some time working on the trunk first. The locking and warding charms were new, and they'd sparkle ostentatiously and attract attention. Neville, Dean, Seamus, and Ron could tell anyone else who asked that Harry didn't usually use spells like that to guard his property. So it was another potential distraction to anyone who didn't know his real plans.

And Harry was confident that the only one with a chance of knowing his plans was Snape, and the man had so far declined to interfere in any way if he _did_ know. Harry could almost be grateful to him for that, or at least for hatred. If there had been any semblance of ordinary concern between them, or even if he wanted to use Harry for a purpose, Snape would have tried to keep him alive.

As it was, he wouldn't, and neither of them owed the other anything.

* * *

_It's only appropriate that the Marauders' Map should go to the last Marauder. Remus Lupin is also to have my photo album, with the pictures of my parents and myself, and Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Sirius's house. Remus, I hope you're happy in the future, and that you can take joy even from the past. If not, forgive me, and feel free to do whatever you'd like with these possessions. They'll be yours, and they're not meant to cause you pain._

* * *

The steps to the Astronomy Tower were cold with the wind whistling down them. Harry had expected that, given the major snowstorm falling out on the grounds. He climbed them patiently anyway, and then paused at the top and cast a measured glance down the long, twisting staircase.

He'd thought at first of Transfiguring them to ice, but then rejected that idea. For one thing, he wasn't sure his Transfiguration skills were strong enough, but for another, it might involve someone slipping and cracking his skull. Harry didn't want to kill anyone else, or even really hurt them—other than Voldemort. He only wanted to slow them down.

In the end, he'd chosen the Cunning Stone curse, one that Moody had shown him when Harry asked. It would leave the staircase looking like stone, but in truth make it as shaky and hard to walk on as marmalade; anyone climbing it would sink up to the knee or tumble back down.

"It's not every student of mine who thinks to use the ground beneath his enemy's feet as a weapon," Moody had said, gravely proud, his magical eye rolling around and around his head as if to emphasize how rare that was. "I'm glad you're learning to think like a soldier, boy. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!_"_

Harry, as he cast the spell, rather agreed. It was planning and vigilance and guarding his back that had enabled him to get this far, rather than just dashing into things without thinking, as he'd done all last year.

He imagined he could feel a faint pressure from a hand on his lower back as he thought about the debacle in the Ministry.

_Just wait for me, Sirius. It won't be long now. _

He put his wand back into his robe pocket, turned, and ducked through the arch onto the Astronomy Tower.

* * *

_Three-fifths of the money in my vaults is to be left to the Weasleys. One-fifth goes to Hermione Granger, and one-fifth to Remus Lupin. Finally, please find enclosed, in smaller envelopes at the bottom of my trunk, a Galleon and a Knut. The Galleon goes to Professor Dumbledore, and the Knut to Professor Snape, to express my estimate of their value._

* * *

Severus walked carefully through the entrance hall, following in the track of the way he'd seen Potter go. He was sure that the boy had turned here, but then he had gone—where?

He could have used the _Point Me_ spell, but he saw two young Hufflepuffs huddling in the shadows not far from him, as if they hoped they could avoid his notice by said huddling. The fools squealed and cowered. Severus sneered, his sense of superiority coming back. Potter might baffle him, and Granger might have hurt his position, but to most of the other students in the school, he was still in a position of utmost authority.

"Where is Harry Potter?" he demanded. "Have you seen him?"

"He—he went out onto the grounds," one of them squeaked, pointing through the doors from the hall.

Severus studied the way out with a frown. Snow and wind had been howling over Hogwarts most of the day, and though the pace of both had somewhat slackened in the hour since dinner began, they were by no means done. It seemed impossible that a student would choose to risk getting lost in the Forbidden Forest or freezing to death just for the sake of some solitude.

_But Potter is always doing impossible things. _And if the boy were mad, he might consider solitude worth the risk.

Severus turned on the Hufflepuffs with a scowl that sent them scampering off like the mice they were, then drew his cloak around his face, cast several warming charms, and stepped out into the open air. The wind nearly knocked him from his feet. Snowflakes crept down his neck and arms and melted against his skin with the peculiar wet tickle that Severus had always hated. Tiny, fast-traveling particles of ice stung his eyes. Severus growled and drew his wand. He still wanted to follow Potter, his annoyance increasing his stubbornness, but obviously peering around wouldn't locate the boy, and he had no desire to walk in circles.

"_Point Me _Harry Potter," he said.

And then he stared, as the wand spun over and over on his palm, sometimes shuddering and jerking to a halt, but then starting its circle again after a few seconds, pointing nowhere in particular.

Suspicion raced like lightning up Severus's spine, but found no place to strike.

* * *

_At the very bottom of this trunk is a sealed letter. Please deliver this letter to Number 4 Privet Drive, the house I lived in for ten years, without attempting to open it. _

The letter was not a scathing farewell to the Dursleys, nor a long, tearful lamentation. Harry did not see the use of either of those. It was simply a list, carefully numbered, of every deprivation, lack, and piece of verbal abuse they'd inflicted on him.

At the bottom of the list was a single paragraph: _Did I forgive you or not? I suppose you'll never know._

* * *

Harry drew off the Invisibility Cloak and placed it carefully in a niche near the top of the stairs to the Tower. The Marauders' Map, which he'd carried to prevent anyone from tracking him that way, followed it. He'd needed them, but he didn't want to burn them up when the flames exploded through his body from Medea's Draught. They were useful, and they had once mattered to him.

Besides, they belonged to other people now.

He stepped towards the edge of the Astronomy Tower, bracing himself against the fierce wind, and looked down. His throat stung from the height in a moment. His eyes watered. But he could still see the courtyard, small and far away, though gleaming with ice now.

Harry gave a small nod. He had chosen the Tower for a reason, other than the privacy. Should his trap begin to fail, and Voldemort try to take over his body, Harry planned to hurl himself over the side. It would do Voldemort little good to possess him when the fall would kill them both in the next few seconds.

Harry took his wand out and tossed it towards the Cloak, where it landed with a small, sad sound. He wouldn't need it anymore.

Then he drew out the vial of Medea's Draught, uncorked it, and swallowed it in one quick movement. He had about five minutes before the poison began to dissolve his liver and his other internal organs. That should be enough time to construct the mirrored hall in his mind that would work for the Beholding and trap his enemy.

_I'm coming, Sirius. You'll be avenged shortly._

Head lifted, heart beating fast and quick, face taut with pride, Harry began the Siren Song.


	24. This Is Your Life

Thank you so much for all the reviews! Believe me, I wouldn't have left the chapter on a cliffhanger like that unless I knew that I'd be able to update promptly. (Of course, this means a longer break before the next chapter).

_Chapter 24—This Is Your Life_

Severus felt the Siren Song the moment it began. He spun around, his neck craned back, staring. Of course, he could see nothing beyond the snow that whirled down from the sky, but he did not doubt what his mind had told him. His hands clenched together as doors opened in his mind, and he suddenly saw the whole of Potter's violently stupid, violently clever plan laid out before him as though Potter were standing next to him telling the truth.

_He did brew the Medea's Draught. He means to die from it. I thought he could not use Beholding because the Dark Lord is a Legilimens who can master his victims, but he never intended that he should leave an undamaged body behind for the Dark Lord to master._

And he had found out the truth in time—it might be in time—only because Potter had never realized that Severus was an Occlumens sensitive enough to sense Siren Songs. He must have thought that Severus only knew of Draco Malfoy's headache from finding him later, and only knew of the Siren Songs directed at him because of the effects when he was released from them.

That small overlooked fact was the one that would enable Severus to find him now. He did not hesitate about whether he wished to save Potter's life. He might want to, yes—because he did not believe that Potter's plan, as he understood it, would work, and the only thing worse than having the Dark Lord inside the walls of the school would be having him there in Potter's body. He would go for his own safety as much as anything else.

And if there was something of admiration for the cleverness of the plan, and something of a scolding of himself for having been so foolish, in his mind—what of it? He was the only one who knew they were there.

He took the first steps from the entrance hall two at a time. He knew Potter was above him, at a very high point, and he knew that had to mean the Astronomy Tower.

* * *

Harry had never been so serene, so happy. 

The point he'd been aiming for months had finally come, and the struggle he'd been looking forward to and training for was about to commence. It hadn't been hard to attach the Siren Song to Voldemort's mind, and soon it had come drifting towards him like a dust mote in a sunbeam. And he could tuck that mind into the mirrored hall of Beholding he'd made. But then Voldemort would struggle, and fight, and he was a powerful Legilimens. Harry would have to hold him still until the Medea's Draught could kill them.

He was sure that he could. Hadn't he practiced?

He drew Voldemort steadily on, humming a tune beneath his breath that matched with scene after scene of remembered destruction he'd drawn from his enemy's thoughts at night. He intertwined the disgusting emotions, pleasure and longing for pain, he'd felt with the music. He meant to have Tom Riddle, and he did have him. There was a hook in his mouth, and he was being drawn along, neat as you please.

Harry built a small sanctuary of those hateful memories in his mind, and then deposited Tom Riddle's consciousness there, where he would see only himself, and sense only his own preoccupations, and not realize what had happened until it was too late.

Harry felt him settle into the prison. He ceased the Siren Song, sighing in relief, and sat down on the flat stones to rest for a moment.

And then pain seared through his head, because he had forgotten, or never known, what it meant to be a master Legilimens, the way that Voldemort was, and what it meant to have all that immense power tearing your mind apart from the inside out.

* * *

Severus felt the Siren Song cease as he took the stairs from the fourth floor to the fifth. He snarled under his breath, and irritably banished the coils of a spell he could feel reaching for his mind. Another of Potter's stupid distractions, no doubt, and one that would have caught a lesser man. Well, an Occlumens was often beyond the means of mental domination on a less powerful level than Legilimency or the Imperius Curse. 

_Then why did you try to give a suggestion potion to Potter?_

Severus grimaced, and sped up. The least pleasant part of this whole business, other than perhaps the thought that Potter would manage to kill himself before he reached the Tower, was that he had been so completely, so _utterly_, fooled.

He couldn't have managed a deception like this himself when he was sixteen. Oh, he'd fooled his professors and his fellow Slytherins well enough, but there had been no one in the school then who could watch him on the level that Severus had watched Potter. And Potter had close friends, too, which Severus never had, and the Headmaster cared about him. That he could have escaped so many eyes was close to impossible.

But he had.

The urge to punish him for that was almost as strong as the urge to make an alliance with him. Had Severus found another spy, never mind for what cause, among the Death Eaters, the kind of person who could carry out the deception he had for so long, he would have offered him his hand, even if they could not ultimately benefit each other.

And he was very far, as he crossed onto the sixth floor, from thinking that he and Potter could not benefit each other.

* * *

Harry wasn't sure which was worse, the pain in his gut or the pain in his head. The Medea's Draught had begun its business of dissolving his spleen and his liver and his other internal organs, eating them alive with acid. Harry knew approximately what it would do, but he had not been prepared for this level of sheer hurt. 

And Voldemort shredded his memories, shredded his careful training, shredded his Occlumency shields, in his last bid for freedom.

Harry rolled his head on his neck, panting. He hadn't screamed yet, but it wouldn't be long. He watched the drop longingly. Perhaps, after all, he should leap over the side now and let the fall kill him.

But he didn't think he had enough strength to lift himself and crawl to the edge. Besides, he still thought he should keep his word to Sirius. Dying in pain to make up for the pain he'd caused made sense to him.

The moment came when he _had_ to scream, and the pain in his gut asserted itself as the worst.

* * *

The scream that came echoing down the stairs made Severus pause for an instant, and that was enough for him to see that the steps to the Astronomy Tower were not quite right in the torchlight. He hissed when he poked one with his wand, and it wobbled and nearly collapsed. 

_Cunning Stone._

Luckily, he knew the countercurse, though he had to cast it twice, because his agitation made him flub the wand movement the first time. And then he was racing up, and up, towards light, and air, and cold, and the continuing screams of a dying boy.

He came out on the Tower roof, and saw Potter writhing there, his hands clamped around his stomach. Severus knelt down not far from him and stared into those pain-brilliant green eyes, undecided yet as to what he would do. Perhaps, after all, Potter would die in the killing of the Dark Lord, and it might be best to let him get on with it, though such would be a waste of the cleverness and courage and drive that had brought the boy this far.

Those eyes told Severus the truth, though, since there was no way the boy could prevent a Legilimency probe now. The Dark Lord was chewing through his mind. He might yet possess Potter before the Medea's Draught could run its course, and then he could combine his magic with Potter's own not-inconsiderable power and all would be over. As Severus had suspected, the mirror maze of Beholding Potter had created had not been strong enough to hold his enemy.

_First things first. Whether Potter lives or dies, the Dark Lord cannot be allowed to remain._

And Severus came down on that twisting, old, snake-like mind with the wave of crushing power he had once used to try to destroy Potter.

The Dark Lord had never understood the force of his servant's mental gifts, and he did not have the footing or the comprehension to fight both Severus and Potter's mind, which instinctively tried to throw the intruder out even though Potter's will couldn't guide his thoughts. A brief, furious press, and Severus and Potter together threw him out. He went spiraling back towards his own body like a fly tossed from an eagle's nest.

He would come back to consciousness soon, and then the hunt would commence with feverish eagerness, Severus knew. Up until this moment, his Lord might not have been quite sure Severus had betrayed him. Now he knew.

And now Severus had chosen a side for himself—his own. And that side required that the dying boy beside him live to defeat the Dark Lord.

He turned and crouched over Potter. Though the pain was enough to have driven someone else mad, Potter was looking at him with understanding. Perhaps it helped that he was insane already.

"You _bastard_," Potter said.

"It would not have worked," Severus told him, glad that his own voice could be calm.

"_You_ won't work," Potter said, and closed his eyes. Severus could see the feverish heat gathering around the boy's face, and knew the flames would begin soon. "No antivenin can be brewed for the Medea's Draught."

"No antivenin brewed," Severus repeated. "I do not intend to brew one. Truly, Potter, you know little about Potions." He lifted his wand, and, absurdly enough, for a moment, the image of Potter Summoning his broom during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament came to him. Perhaps he only thought of it because the boy lay dying now, and Severus would use something very similar to save his life. "_Accio_ bezoar!"

Potter's eyes flashed open, dazed, and he screamed again. Far below them in the dungeon storeroom, Severus felt one of the bezoars he kept begin to thrash, and then it fought its way out of the cupboard and came sailing towards him, taking the shortest way, through the first window it found.

Potter's body burst into flames. Severus lunged forward and grabbed him, rolling him close in his cloak, trying to soothe the burning as much as he could.

* * *

Harry couldn't prevent his body from writhing, or his mouth from shrieking. But in his mind was a center of calm, like an eye of the storm. 

He had accomplished one purpose, if not the other. He hated to die without defeating Voldemort, but someone else would just have to do it. Dumbledore, maybe. And at least he was still paying his debt to Sirius. Let Snape call for bezoars all he liked, they wouldn't get here in time.

He felt that as he burned, as the flames ate him from outside and in. Even if the poison stopped right now and didn't divide his limbs from his body the way the book threatened it should, he would die. He had to. No one could survive the bolts of sheer agony he was feeling at the moment.

And then folds of cloth that had smothered his face were pushed back, and Snape's fingers grabbed his jaw and forced it open, and something smelly and manky plunged down his throat.

And the pain in Harry's gut was gone, the flames quite burnt out.

He cried out around the obstruction in his throat, tried to spit it free, thrashed and made himself as much of a nuisance as possible. Snape had destroyed his trap for Voldemort, but he was _not_ going to destroy this!

"Hush, you foolish child," Snape's voice said in his ear, and then he intoned an incantation for a sleeping spell. Harry battled ferociously, doing his best to throw it off, but the loss of the calm in his mind had opened him to the pain, and in the end he was never sure if he succumbed to the spell or simply fainted.

He did know that he went down into the darkness with enormous disgust, and self-contempt, and hatred for Snape above all other people in the world.

* * *

Severus nearly smiled as he gathered Potter up in the folds of his cloak and stood, though burns seamed the boy's body, and the damage to his internal organs was perilous enough to require Severus to cast several stabilizing charms, as if he were a potion in a delicate stage of brewing. 

A prize had fallen in his way that he had hardly thought he could take.

If he left the boy here, there would be far too much questioning, and far too much fuss. They would heal his injuries, yes, but they would also find out what he had done, and insist on sending him to St. Mungo's for treatment once they decided he was suicidal. There would be no training of the kind that Potter simply _must_ have, if he was going to win the next time he tried Occlumency on the Dark Lord—a Dark Lord awakened to his danger, now. And there would be no safety for Severus, here, not even if he could prove that he'd saved the boy's life. Albus would dream up a new excuse to get rid of him.

But.

Severus could take him away to Bolthole. No one knew of its existence but him, now; he'd cast a Memory Charm on the wizard who had kept the house for him for so many years. He had the necessary potions to heal the boy, to force the truth from him when he was well enough to confess, and to handle any trouble he might make. And he would know how to—well, _cure_ Potter was not truly the right word. Manage him, rather. Severus wanted to obliterate the more dangerous tendencies of the insanity, but not get rid of it completely. He rather liked Potter mad. When Potter was mad, he did intelligent things.

He had the sole weapon that would settle the war, fitted to his hand.

Neither Dumbledore nor the Dark Lord would know where he was, and neither would know what to expect until Severus chose to reveal himself. He'd freed himself from them more permanently and more completely than he ever could have simply by squatting in Bolthole and waiting for the war to end, and he had the means to become a power of his own.

And he'd either have control of Potter, utterly and completely—

Or he would enjoy the battles he'd been fighting with him, and mold him into a sort of comrade-at-arms. And half the glory of defeating the Dark Lord would belong to him.

Either way, Severus thought he was now in a position to be happier than he'd been for several years.

Of course, it was necessary to summon Potter's belongings and those potions ingredients and books still in his rooms to the Tower before he could quite proceed. He would not risk going below to the dungeons while he still carried Potter in his cloak. He carefully cast the Summoning Charms a few minutes apart. It was possible that the more time that passed, the higher the chance of discovery was, but in this case Potter's little precautions would work for him. They would begin the search outside or where the mind-charms led them, and not on the Astronomy Tower.

"There you are."

Severus turned his head, eyes narrowed. He had forgotten that one person in the castle _did_ have reason to be near his rooms this night, and might grow curious when he saw his possessions flying out of them. Draco would have come for a lesson Severus had fully intended to give him.

Now he stood there, pale, shaking, and his eyes fixed on Potter, burning with something like jealousy.

"You're not taking Potter to _him_," he whispered.

"Leave, Mr. Malfoy," Severus said calmly, levitating the objects he'd gathered around him with a flick of his wand. Close enough, and they would be caught in the circle of influence from the powerful Portkey he'd created and would travel with him and Potter. The Dark Lord already knew he was a traitor, and Draco could not betray him further. "My fate need concern you no longer."

"I knew you were giving him lessons." Draco's voice shook. "But I never thought—I never thought—"

His right hand reached over and gripped the Dark Mark on his left arm. Severus narrowed his eyes. It was true that Death Eaters could summon the Dark Lord's attention by using a certain spell on the Mark, and even call his presence to their side, but because of the certainty of death if they interrupted him at something important, hardly anyone dared to do so.

"Do not be stupid, Mr. Malfoy," he said, meeting Draco's eyes.

"You favor him over _me_," Draco snarled, and then he began to speak the first words that would open the link between him and the Dark Lord.

With a certain amount of regret, Severus pushed out a Legilimency probe, snapping past Draco's worthless shields with an ease that would no doubt insult the boy, and was meant to.

Within moments he was deep within Draco's mind, and there he performed one of the operations that made unauthorized use of Legilimency the equivalent of mental rape. He destroyed one of the delicate mechanisms that powered Draco's memory, and made him incapable of remembering anything longer than two minutes. He would essentially be a mindless automaton until and unless Dumbledore or some other Legilimens saw the problem and managed to heal him.

He came back to himself and saw Draco staring at him, wide-eyed, vacant, mumbling, "Who are you? My name is Draco Malfoy."

Severus made him a bow he would never understand, and then, drawing his and Potter's belongings close enough that they brushed his body and holding Potter against his chest, took hold of the Portkey at the top of his robes and vanished—into freedom, and into power.


	25. Potter As Scratching Post

Thanks again for all the reviews! Chapter 24 ended the first arc of the story, and this opens the second. The battles between Harry and Snape are still present, but the circumstances are altered, and they have a different focus now than just hiding Harry's secret or getting one-up on Potter.

_Chapter 25—Potter As Scratching Post_

Severus grimaced down at the boy in the bed he'd set up in his extra room. Sometimes, he wondered whether he hadn't put in too much effort, whether it wouldn't have been simpler to let Potter die on the top of the Astronomy Tower.

On the other hand, by now he _had_ poured so much effort into the boy that letting him die would be wasting his work.

The first two days had been touch-and-go; Severus had been forced to remove the stabilizing spells while he fed the healing potions to Potter, but the moment the spells vanished, the decay of his internal organs began again. Severus's wand had to move fast, now preserving his liver from disintegration until the specific potion he'd just used could swamp it in restorative fluid, now guessing the progress of a viscous liquid down Potter's esophagus and matching its speed against the slow destruction of Potter's kidneys. And that said nothing about all the difficulties of feeding someone whose organs were as decayed as Potter's, and the delicate, difficult stratagems he had to use so that the food didn't mingle with the potions and cause an undesirable result.

Compared to that, the burns were easy. Burn potions were relatively common, and one ingredient could be substituted for another, so that if he couldn't use his first choice because of a reaction it would have with a healing potion, he could find another. And Potter's burns were second-degree only—serious, but not irrecoverable. At the end of those first two days, the flesh on Potter's face and body, which had looked like cooked meat, was a mass of fresh pink scar tissue, and that too would fade in time. Another spell kept a layer of cool air in between the new skin and the blankets, so that Potter did not wake screaming from the pain.

And there were compensations even for the brutal damage the Medea's Draught had wrought on his internal organs. For one thing, it had not touched his stomach. If it had pierced the lining and let the digestive acid inside out on the other organs, everything would have been over. And the boy was utterly under his control, and would be for a long time to come. He would have to take some healing potions for weeks still; others he would need to be weaned off, as they contained addictive ingredients. If Severus chose to make Potter repay his investment, he had the instruments at hand to ensure that happened.

He had done harder things than this before, like brewing potions in battle conditions. He kept his mind focused on one task this time, at least, without needing to speed between cauldron and curses.

And slowly Potter mended, though he never woke save to briefly scream in those first two days before Severus put him under again.

When he saw signs of stirring on the third day, the twenty-seventh of December, he refrained from casting the sleeping spell. Potter's pain would still be great, but not unendurable—nowhere near the level of the Medea's Draught. And it would probably make him understand his dependent position better than words ever could.

Besides, he had questions he wanted to ask the boy. He settled close beside the bed, a vial of Veritaserum in his hand.

* * *

Harry clawed hard, and struggled back to consciousness with a rush of light and triumph and the feeling that he should have done this much earlier, only someone had stopped him. He opened his eyes, but saw only a single thick blur. He blinked harder, struggling.

A hand pried his jaw open, and he felt three drops of some potion touch the end of his tongue. He wasn't alarmed until a floating feeling invaded his mind, and he realized what the potion probably was.

_No!_

He made the struggle internal this time, but though he could summon all his will to the task, he couldn't stop hearing, and his tongue seemed to have been removed from his control. As his sight cleared and he recognized Snape, the man's voice, relentless as his fingers had been, asked, "What is your full name?"

"Harry James Potter." The answer came out of him in a mechanical fashion, the way Harry remembered himself obeying Hermione's orders under the suggestion potion, and that increased rather than reduced the burning rage in the back of his mind. "You _bastard! _I _hate_ you!"

"Yes, of course you do." Now Harry could see Snape leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. When his eyes met Harry's, he didn't even try to hide the sadistic amusement that sparkled in them. "Now. I know the general aspects of your plan, but I wish to hear particulars. How were you planning to kill the Dark Lord?"

And Harry opened his mouth and told Snape his plan. He supposed the secrecy itself was irrelevant, now that Snape had seen his plan fail—

_Made_ it fail.

Harry ran the memories swiftly over in his mind as his disobedient tongue spoke on and on, and, though he was confused with pain and irritation, he was sure he remembered Snape attacking the mirrored maze in his mind, smashing it to fragments. It had worked until then. It had held Voldemort until then.

The hatred settled deeper into his gut. He could divine that Snape didn't want him to die, or he wouldn't have bothered with the bezoar, but wasn't it just _like_ the git to decide that Harry shouldn't defeat his enemy in any way but the one Snape approved of?

He would kill him. It would have to wait until just before he killed Voldemort, but he wanted him _dead._ He swore, in silence, an oath to Sirius it would be so, and then leaned back on his pillow, letting the pain rule him for a bit, though he never removed his gaze from Snape's face.

* * *

Severus listened in silence. The boy's determination no longer surprised him; nor did his ability to learn Occlumency when he decided to do so. He was still reeling from the discovery that Potter had managed to brew Medea's Draught, but he could come to accept even that, in time.

No, what staggered him the most in Potter's involuntary confession was the reason he had sought to die instead of searching for some Occlumency technique that would let him kill the Dark Lord but keep his own life. Disgust grew in him as he listened. Potter was going to sacrifice his life for some misguided idea of repaying the mutt?

And that was the delusion he'd unwittingly countenanced when he blamed Potter for his godfather's death in detention. He did not think it was possible to turn Potter's course by mere words, but he had helped make the boy more dedicated than ever to the idea of finishing himself off.

_What caused this?_

He could not entirely tell, so when the confession finished and Potter was mumbling various incoherent promises of vengeance under his breath, he asked, "Was there anything special about your summer, Potter? Besides your making such a foolish choice, I mean."

Potter's face was carved like a fine bronze mask with his loathing. Severus rather enjoyed the effect.

"It was almost like last summer," Potter answered. "Just a few letters from my friends, a few from Dumbledore." Severus found himself automatically opening his mouth to correct Potter on the disrespect and add the Headmaster's title, and stopped himself, amused. _The habits of a lifetime are indeed hard to break. _"Oh, and my relatives didn't speak to me."

Severus sat up, feeling as though he had hold of the end of an invisible rope. "What do you mean by that?"

"They didn't talk to me," Potter said plainly. "I'd _hear_ them talking, and they brought me breakfast and the rest, and sometimes they'd look at me with scowls or fear in their eyes, but they never spoke to me."

"And none of the Order came to your house and spoke to you?" Severus demanded. He knew what the cause of Potter's madness might be now, but he could hardly believe it had happened. It was a coincidence that no one had spoken to the boy and broken his isolation.

"No."

Severus leaned back in his chair, musing, and shook his head. He knew what happened to wizards who lived so far apart from the world that they never saw one person from one year to the next, and who avoided speech with their kind. Their identities began to break down. People depended on other people to define them, their speech and their thoughts and their reactions, and without that—

Without that, there was obsession, psychosis, a reduction of what had once been a human being to a few basic desires and drives. Potter didn't have to worry about finding his own food and shelter, so his mind had seized on his godfather's death and brooded there until he came up with a way, as he saw it, to escape both his grief and his feeling of extreme isolation.

It was remarkable that Potter's resolve should have survived his return to the school, but there, the advanced insanity and the sheer strength of his will had probably helped. He might have been tempted to forsake his promise, but he'd clung to it, and no one had noticed, because everyone else had no notion of the reasons that Harry Potter might want to commit suicide.

"I am going to kill you."

Severus looked up. Potter had only whispered the words, but he wondered if they were as fervent as the vow he had made to kill himself, and sneered. He leaned forward, eyes fastened on Potter's.

It was time the boy understood a few home truths.

* * *

Harry could feel the detached floating feeling in his mind from the Veritaserum wearing off, at last. He was gasping from the pain in his gut, but the pain of knowing he'd told everything to Snape was almost worse. He wanted to _hurt_, to _tear_, to _rend_, and he couldn't, he had to lie here helpless in bed—

"Potter."

Harry looked up, his nerves on fire. If he could convey the least part of his loathing to Snape, then—

"You are a baffling combination of the most twisted intelligence and the most sublime stupidity," Snape told him in a monotone, so that it took Harry a long moment to catch up with the words and realize what had been said.

"I did what I had to do," he said stiffly. "And if you hadn't ripped my mind apart just as Voldemort was—"

"Is that what you think happened?" Snape raised his eyebrows. "No. The Dark Lord was too much for you. He was already breaking free from your trap. That was another reason I interfered, Potter. At the last moment, I did think you might win, but you would not have. And I will not have the Dark Lord possessing you and using your body and magic to benefit himself. I _will_ kill you myself first."

Harry glared at him. The problem was that his memory of the moment was so scattered, thanks to the pain, that he couldn't say Snape was wrong. Maybe he had started losing control of Voldemort, but the potion might have killed him before Voldemort could possess him.

_Maybe._

"And as to your reason for seeking your death instead of _his_ death—"

"I _did_ mean to kill him—"

"Listen to me, Potter!"

Harry fell silent with a blink. Snape's voice had risen, not to a shout, but to a hard push that he couldn't yell over right now. He was leaning forward, his black eyes glittering as he stared at Harry.

"It was fantastically stupid," he said, every word banging into Harry's head like a nail into a coffin, "to _believe_ that you owed Black your life. You did not kill him, Potter, and if you had spoken to someone else once in the critical period, that delusion would have fallen apart. Alas, you did not, and it is left to me to pick up the pieces." He shook his head.

"I didn't ask you to save me!" Harry struggled up so that he was leaning against the pillows, his hatred clogging his throat. He wanted so badly to inflict pain on Snape, and, thanks to his weakness, he couldn't. "You could have let me die! I—"

"And you would have died with the Dark Lord still undefeated," Snape cut in mercilessly. "Is that what you wished?"

"I tried to kill him!"

"And you did not try _hard enough._" Snape leaned still closer, and Harry thought he had never realized how ugly the man's face was before now. "You did not practice until you were certain that you could hold a Legilimens that powerful in a Beholding maze. You did not look about for alternate tactics you might have used to strengthen your assault. A suicidal attack is one thing, Potter, but it should be at least a suicidal attack that accomplishes its objective!"

"I was going to—"

"But then," Snape went on, his voice dropping and deepening, his eyes never moving from Harry's, "you _would_ have accomplished your purpose, wouldn't you? You didn't really want to defeat the Dark Lord. Even repaying your godfather was only an excuse. You wanted to kill yourself, and this way, you could convince yourself it was not a selfish act." Snape's lip curled slightly. "Or a cowardly one, which must have been the harder lie, given how _brave_ you Gryffindors are."

Harry was panting. Red-black explosions opened in front of his eyes. His hands clenched so hard that he could feel the tension biting into his shoulders. "Shut _up!_"

"Feeling bad to hear your justification torn to shreds?" Snape taunted him softly. "Don't want to hear that you're a little boy instead of the grand war-hero you thought you were? Don't want to know that you used talents that could have won the war for completely selfish and stupid ends?" He nodded in mock sympathy, clucking his tongue. "Of course, it must be hard to come face-to-face with yourself after a lifetime of believing you were in the right."

Harry caught the instinctive response he wanted to make to that, and leaned back on the pillows, panting. He forced himself to _think_, to wonder why Snape had bothered saving him if he thought this of him. And then he remembered the fact that Snape was to leave Hogwarts at the end of the Christmas holidays, and snorted, his shoulders relaxing. Snape wanted Voldemort dead so he would be safe. That was his selfish reason. He didn't really believe what he was saying. It was just a convenient means to keep Harry alive.

He laughed quietly.

Snape cocked his head, but he didn't seem angry, only intent, the way a predatory bird was when considering its prey. "And what is so funny, Mister Potter?"

"The fact that you've still lost," Harry said, and wished the calm words hadn't been marred by a pant of pain at the end. He shrugged himself past that, though. He could already see a new course stretching before him. "You'll heal me, if that's what you've done, and give me back to other people. They'll put me in St. Mungo's, I think. And then I'll look very sorry for what I did and seem to heal, and, when they think I'm back to normal, I'll reach out for Voldemort and kill myself again at the same time. You could be suspicious enough to distrust me for months, maybe, but they won't." He laughed in Snape's face. "You've just won a small battle."

A smile flicked across Snape's face. "Do you realize," he asked, "that you are not in Hogwarts? You are in a small house of my own—one that none but the two of us realize exist. I took you away from Hogwarts after I stopped you from killing yourself. And this shall be your home for the next few months, or however long it takes to train you for your true task, killing the Dark Lord, instead of slaying yourself."

Harry clenched his hands. "I don't believe you," he said.

"Believe or not, as you like." Snape eyed him contemplatively. "What matters is that I understand the reasons you wished to kill yourself now. Extreme isolation formed and nurtured that delusion. Contact with life will cure it."

Harry laughed despite himself. "And you think _you're _life, Snape?"

"I am willing, as others would not be if I turned you over to them, to use extreme methods to break down your isolation," Snape said, and rose to his feet, still smiling. "In the meantime, understand that you were excessively stupid, even for you, to decide on this method of dying. You attracted the Dark Lord's attention and maimed yourself for no good purpose."

"I tried to fulfill—"

"Not well enough," Snape cut him off pitilessly. "And since you cannot be trusted to take your destiny seriously, I will take over the management of that for you, too. You will train here, under my eye, for as long as necessary." He cocked his head. "You may wish to kill yourself still and seek alternate methods, but I will see and stop them, as those in St. Mungo's could not."

Harry lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. His one great ambition at that moment was not to kill himself, but to find some way of hurting Snape. Perhaps murdering him would suffice, if he could choose a sufficiently painful death.

He had lost the calm determination that had sustained him since the beginning of summer, but the red-edged black fury clawing up its way up his throat could substitute.

* * *

Severus concealed a smile as he went to fetch Potter's next dose of potion. He had seen the loathing in the boy's eyes. He knew what it meant, none better, since he'd felt it himself for James Potter and Sirius Black.

Potter had already made the first step towards losing his obsession with destroying himself: caring more about another goal. In this case, having that will focused on his destruction was dangerous, Snape knew.

But the danger only made him the more inclined to laugh and welcome it. If Potter were an easy enemy to overcome or convince in the first few minutes of conversation, Severus would have been bored. Even the prospect of controlling and torturing an old enemy's son would not have sustained his interest through the weeks and months necessary to improve the boy's skills.

But Potter was a challenge, and one that Severus must be very careful not to underestimate.

When the boy turned fully away from his suicidal thoughts and embraced life, in the guise of killing Severus, that care would increase to a level he'd previously had to exercise only around Death Eaters and Dumbledore, he knew. He still didn't comprehend everything Potter might do.

But, this time, Severus worked directly for his own freedom and power and place in the struggle, not for vaguely-defined goals of immortality or triumph for Dumbledore's side. And Potter was not yet his equal, though close enough to it to be a brisk challenge.

For the first time in years, _he_ felt alive.


	26. Survival of the Angriest

Thanks again for the reviews! As you may have noticed by now, fluffiness will be kept out of this story with might and main.

_Chapter 26—Survival of the Angriest_

Rufus rubbed a hand over his eyes, and wondered when he would finally go to bed. He'd had an incredibly busy two days, and it didn't seem it would get any calmer soon.

First had come the attack on Hogwarts by enraged Death Eaters. It still wasn't clear what they'd wanted, or why they'd chosen to attack on Christmas Eve, a time when most students would be home with their families and less vulnerable. The wards had held them back, and the professors had fought off their spells that had aimed at weakening the wards, and Rufus had sent Aurors as soon as an owl telling him of the battle arrived. They'd been driven back with minimal loss of blood, only the Charms professor at Hogwarts being wounded.

And then they'd learned Harry Potter was missing.

His Head of House, and even Dumbledore as far as Rufus could make out, seemed utterly convinced the Death Eaters had taken him, and that had been their purpose for coming to the school. Rufus did not believe it, however. Too many clues didn't match the idea that Potter had been violently snatched from his bed, or even from the grounds, where a few Hufflepuff students had seen him walking. His belongings were gone, from the trunk in his room to his Firebolt. Rufus doubted Death Eaters would have lingered to pick up their captive's broom in a bout of consideration for how he'd spend his time when not in chains, and having it near the boy was a dangerous invitation to escape, given how expert he was on it.

Besides, his one witness as far as the trunk went, Neville Longbottom, insisted that he'd seen it fly out through the window of Gryffindor Tower and _up_ as if pulled by a Summoning Charm, not down, towards the gates and the grounds where Potter would have been walking.

And then, Snape was missing, too.

Dumbledore had explained blandly that Snape had been dismissed and would have been leaving after Christmas holidays, and he'd been steadily moving his effects from his own rooms to one in the Leaky Cauldron. But there was no one under that name, or even under a different name and glamours or Polyjuice, at that particular establishment. Tom, the owner, admitted when questioned that Snape had taken a room, but he'd never used it except at odd moments, and he'd left nothing there that could be used to track him.

Add to that the mystery of Draco Malfoy lying senseless on the roof of the Astronomy Tower, his memory broken by a skilled Legilimens, and Rufus thought that Snape must have fled with the Potter boy.

But that didn't explain the spells cast in random corners of the castle that caught the attention of those searching for Potter and forced them to visit those random corners, or the fact that, when trying to cast the _Point Me _spell to find her young friend, Miss Hermione Granger testified to her wand spinning uselessly for nearly an hour before it finally calmed and pointed away in some vague direction that seemed far to the north.

Snape could have cast those spells, perhaps, but if so, it testified to long and patient planning. And there seemed no particular reason that other signs of a hasty flight—such as Potter's trunk darting through the window, and the broken Malfoy boy—should coincide with that long and patient planning.

Rufus, who had seen the dark shadows in Potter's eyes, had his own suspicions.

And so he'd written out a careful letter to the boy, explaining what they'd found in the school that night, and inquiring whether Potter was well. It was safe, he'd determined. If it found the boy, it would tell him his friends and allies wondered and worried about him. If it found the Death Eaters…well, it wasn't information they wouldn't know already.

And if the owl came back with a befuddled expression on its face, as if it had flown in circles for hours, Rufus would know the worst of his suspicions had come true, and Potter was dead.

He took a painful breath as he watched the owl swoop into the darkness, and turned back to his paperwork. He'd spent enough time on Potter, and now he had to concentrate on the other duties of the Minister's position.

* * *

Harry woke, and found himself in agony. He lay still, though, breathing shallowly and trying not to draw Snape's attention. If the bastard found him like this, no doubt he would taunt Harry with his weakness.

It felt as though bars of lead had been laid across his chest and were slowly melting, the molten metal dripping into his veins to replace his blood. Some of the pain seemed centered in the same area he'd felt it when he took the Medea's Draught, too. He supposed he would lose the contest and scream in the end, but the longer he could wait, the more of a victory he would win. He counted his breaths, his heartbeats, and seconds in his head.

Finally, he heard Snape's step coming towards him. Harry tried to relax his face, which he knew was locked in a grimace of pain. Maybe Snape would think he was asleep.

No such luck. Snape snarled an oath, and the next moment, Harry found a vial of potion pressed against his lips. He tried to cant his head back and avoid swallowing it, but those same rough fingers that he remembered prying open his jaws to force the bezoar down his throat pinched his nostrils, and as he gasped, down the potion went. At once, the pain diminished to a whisper, and Harry opened watering eyes—he wasn't crying with the pain, his eyes were just watering—to see Snape near at hand, sneering at him. He wore his glasses, Harry realized, and he wondered if Snape had replaced them on his face or he'd put them on before he fell asleep. He honestly didn't remember.

"Next time you are in that much pain, Mr. Potter," Snape said, eyes fixed on him, "you will tell me."

_I at least irritated him, even if it's only because he doesn't want me to die now that he's put so much work into me. _Harry lifted his chin proudly. "I won't make any promises, Professor Snape."

"Do you _wish_ to die?"

Harry laughed. "You stopped me from committing suicide. What do _you_ think?"

There was silence then, which wasn't a reaction Harry had expected. Snape simply studied his face thoughtfully. Then he said, "And yet, I thought you wanted to kill me the last time you were awake."

Harry clenched his fists under his blankets. The rush of rage restored him wonderfully, more than the potion could. "I do," he said softly. "I promise I'll do it. At the moment, I rather favor boiling you in hot lead."

"When you're on your feet and have your wand back in hand," Snape said, his voice sly, "I can teach you a spell that mimics that effect."

Harry stared at him. Snape seemed—amused. He didn't believe Harry could actually get to him, of course. _Damn it._

But Harry bit back more angry words and futile lunges against the cocoon of blankets that held him. While his rage against Snape was invigorating, he didn't want it to make him tired. The efforts it prompted him towards should actually _make sense_, and get him to realize his goal. Tears had been useless once he started thinking about ways to defeat Voldemort. Waving his fists in the air would be equally useless when he started thinking about taking revenge on Snape.

Perhaps the best way for the present would be to make Snape think he was sullen—that he wanted to be glorious in vengeance, but knew there wasn't much help for it. He sank back down and fixed his eyes moodily on the blankets in front of him without replying. Snape chuckled again, but Harry forced himself to show no reaction. The Occlumency shields did help with that, allowing him to compartmentalize his mind and shove the emotions that really would be useless to the very back.

"It's going to be months until I can walk around," he muttered.

"Not so," Snape replied. "Weeks until you are off the potions, yes. But your bodily strength will recover quickly as long as you do nothing to test it, such as racing about while you are still in a vulnerable state." He paused a moment, then continued, "Not that you could do so. There are only seven rooms here, and you could not find your way outside."

Harry immediately resolved to do just that.

* * *

Severus felt another twitch of amusement at the boy's closed expression. His eyes still gave him away, though much less than they would have last year. It was obvious he meant to find a way outside as soon as possible.

He moved a step backwards, catching Potter's attention, and motioned to the books floating behind him, which the boy didn't appear to have noticed. "You cannot yet move fast, nor cast dueling spells, Potter," he said calmly, "but you _can_ study some things while flat on your back. Occlumency, for example. These are books that will stand you in better stead than the single one I found in your trunk. And you can study the theory behind potions."

"Why should I?" Potter, of course, had latched on to the one thing in Severus's offer that he thought would be useless. "I brewed the Medea's Draught, but that took trial and error and far too long. I'll be useless at most potions."

Severus eyed him thoughtfully, wondering if he should announce what he suspected. Then he had to smother a dark grin. Presented neutrally, the information might not affect Potter. Given the spin he intended to give it, it would drive a coffin nail of horror and nagging fear into the boy's mind.

"I do not believe that to be true," he said quietly. "You forget, Potter, that I observed your performance in Potions for the last five years—"

"And _interfered _with it."

Severus shrugged, unrepentant, and more than a little delighted with the hot glare he was getting just then. The boy struggled further and further from sinking back into despair with each emotion he felt like that. "And there is one occasion where I remember your talents truly shining. Do you remember it?"

Silence. Glaring.

"I thought not," Severus said, and ignored the boy's clenched jaw. "The memories of the young are so malleable. This particular potion was called Hellebore's Delight. It is meant as a powerful sedative for those patients who cannot calm their minds from a state of nervous excitement. Often used on witnesses at criminal trials and for those whose 'dearly beloved' has just died—"

"I don't see what this has to do with me."

Severus was not sure what he enjoyed more: the failed attempt to imitate his own bored drawl, or the way that Potter flushed immediately afterwards, realizing he had failed. "Hellebore's Delight is easy to ruin—"

"I'm sure I ruined it, then."

This time, the interruption was not worth noticing. "Its variation is an extremely powerful compound that at first imitates the sedative, but then causes a coma, and death within a few days. I noticed, when I passed behind your cauldron, that you had correctly brewed that variation."

"Told you I ruined it."

"Hellebore's Delight in _either_ form is not easy to brew," Severus said softly. "Just as the Medea's Draught is not."

Potter folded his arms. "I told you, Snape, I know _nothing_ about any potions except one."

"Have you ever wondered, Potter, why Potions is considered a magical class at all?" Severus asked the air above the boy's head. "If it were not, then a Muggle could put the same ingredients together in the same measures and produce the same results, and Squibs could practice that one art if nothing else. But both Muggles and Squibs are useless at it. It _does_ require magic. The potion takes its own impress from the will and strength of its practitioner, and responds to the magic in his body. That is why so many subtle variations of the same brew exist in our world. The right emotion at the right time produces the right result. A slightly different emotion produces a variation."

Abruptly, Potter flinched. Severus coughed to conceal his laugh. The boy understood.

But still he said nothing. It was left to Severus to openly state the knowledge that hovered between them, and which he'd come to accept once he'd fully accepted that Potter had brewed the Medea'a Draught. "You have little talent for the potions that are meant to heal or achieve some other helpful result. With proper training, you can brew them, but then, with proper training in art, anyone can produce an indifferent drawing. Your talent is for poisons, and the malevolent emotions that produce them. When you brew those, you will shine." He cocked his head to the side, and delicately added the tap to the coffin nail. "Needless to say, Dark wizards have been particularly skilled in the brewing of poisons, even when they flubbed up other potions beyond repair."

Potter dug his hands into the blankets. Severus could see him fighting to keep his angry emotions at bay.

"I might have noticed before," Severus continued in a musing tone, "but, of course, we do not brew known poisons in Potions classes at Hogwarts. That default will be corrected now. I expect you to have a fine touch with any potion that kills."

"I'm _not_ a Dark wizard," Potter spat.

"Yes, you are," Severus said calmly. He had to be calm, or he would burst out laughing in his sheer pleasure at Potter's reaction, and then the boy might think he was joking. He was not. "There are _types_ of Dark wizards, Potter. Hitherto you have encountered only one, you think: those like Bellatrix Lestrange and the Dark Lord who are more than slightly insane and delight in torture. But if all Dark wizards were like that, they would have been killed long ago, as little more than nuisances at best and mad dogs at worst. Then there are those who use the Dark Arts. The Ministry labels them as Dark for that, even if they used the spell to save a life."

The boy's eyes flashed in spite of himself, giving away his opinion that the Ministry was idiotic for doing so. _Better and better_, Severus approved. _His rebellion would have emerged sooner or later. Better it be directed at the Ministry than at me. He can hate me all he likes, so long as he does not fling his books from him with petulance as a means of rebellion._

"There are those, as well, who use any means to an end in the hunger for power," Severus continued blandly, "rather like Lucius Malfoy, or Dolores Umbridge, though most would not consider her Dark by the ordinary definitions. And then there are those whose own emotions and experiences push them towards rage and hatred." He held Potter's gaze for a long moment.

The boy sat with eyes half-lidded, as if he were thinking. Perhaps remembering last year, Severus thought, and the way he'd tended to explode into temper at the drop of a hat. Even Severus himself had had a passing thought or two that the boy might be Dark in that way he'd described—as he himself was Dark at root through his own bitterness—but he'd dismissed the thoughts almost at once. The boy was Gryffindor, and heir of the Light to hear Albus talk. The rage was simply the result of hormones.

But Severus no longer believed that was true.

"You will brew poisons well," Severus said. "You have mastered Occlumency through intense study, but you will excel even more at those varieties of Legilimency whose purpose is to destroy and ravage the mind. You would perhaps be a natural at the Dark Arts, though I intend to foreground the other studies for you first. All of that comes from not outside, but inside." He leaned forward, making the boy's eyes meet his. "If you had grieved and climbed over your godfather's death, perhaps it would not be true. But it _is_. You have had nearly one-and-a-half years, now, where you let your darker emotions have free reign. This close to seventeen, the legal age of majority, the age at which a wizard's magic becomes fixed? That length of experience can settle you into one mold for life." He leaned back again, eyes still intent on Potter's face.

"What if I wanted to go back?" Potter whispered. "Try to dismiss the rage and hatred and use my other talents again?"

Severus let his own contempt show on his face. "When your Darker aspects might make you able to defeat the Dark Lord? Or me?"

Potter bowed his head. Severus could feel the intense struggle in his head, if not see it. He might be trying to convince himself it was better to turn back and find some other way to defeat the Dark Lord, and he would bring his friends' voices and the advice he had received all his life about morality to bear.

But on the other side were his determination, and the long months of concentrating intensely on one goal—and the experiences of his childhood in his Muggle home, which Severus had discovered and read in Potter's trunk, along with the intriguing will. At last, Severus thought he understood how Potter could have as much rage and hatred as he did. And the pull of those experiences and emotions together would probably lead Potter back to Darkness—the variety Severus had talked about, only. It was not even recognized as Dark by many people, just a normal reaction to what some wizards and witches had gone through. Many survivors of the war with Grindelwald had ended up the same way.

It was not to be expected that Potter would begin to torture people. But it was to be expected that he would lose some of his moral inhibitions. He'd lost some of the more delicate already, as his use of the Siren Song on Severus and Draco, his brewing of a deadly, illegal poison, his use of the Memory Charm, and his manipulation of his friends and the Headmaster proved. Severus only needed to urge him a little further, and after that the boy would do most of the work, sharpening himself into the weapon that alone could defeat the Dark Lord.

Severus intended to be the one to hold the hilt of that weapon, of course.

Finally, Potter lifted his head, and held out one hand. Severus arched an eyebrow.

"Give me the Occlumency books."

"So gracious," Severus murmured beneath his breath, and flicked his wand so that the books flew past his head and landed on Potter's lap. Potter's gaze fastened on his wand longingly. Severus noticed it, and laughed inwardly. Yes, Potter still had his prejudices as to the best ways of fighting someone with magic. That would probably change as he studied Legilimency.

He said nothing else, but began to read, so Severus turned and left the room. He had the strange letter he'd received that morning to study. It was from the Minister of Magic, and addressed to Potter. Certain readings he'd done between the lines had convinced Severus that Scrimgeour suspected Potter of suicidal tendencies almost before anyone else. It also contained important, useful news about the outside world.

They needed someone who had an eye on the Death Eaters to pass news to them; that was undoubtedly true. Severus wondered if it was possible to make Scrimgeour into that ally.


	27. Machinery of the Mind

Thanks again for the reviews! As to whether this is about to become a "Dark Harry" fic, that depends on a) what you mean by 'Dark Harry', and b) if Harry will actually let that happen. Snape has one opinion about him, and Harry has another.

_Chapter 27—Machinery of the Mind_

Rufus shook his head and once again scanned the letter he'd received nearly a day after he sent the owl, when he'd just started to worry that his message had been intercepted by someone it wasn't meant for.

_December 30th, 1996_

_Minister Scrimgeour:_

_You will not know my hand, I am certain, but I will waste no time before enlightening you. I am Severus Snape, and I have with me Harry Potter._

_I have no doubt the clues left behind baffled you. The truth is that Potter tried to commit suicide. He had some mad plan that would supposedly have let him defeat the Dark Lord at the same time. I have no idea how he fell far enough into delusion without the Headmaster or his friends noticing and stopping him, but the truth is that he did. His death would have slain him alone had I not found and interfered with it. He had gone far enough in his desperation to brew a painful and illegal poison, but a Potions master knows how to stop such things. I have brought him to a refuge of my own, and have healed him in isolation since then._

_I had very little time to plan our departure, which will account for half the story. The charming spells set all about the castle to make tracking him hard or impossible were Potter's work. He was determined that no one should interfere with his demise. Luckily, certain clues he left pointed the way for me in time. _

_I know you will ask why I did not carry Potter to the hospital wing and leave him at once in the care of his friends and the Headmaster. The simple truth is that I did not trust them. They did not even pay enough attention to Potter to discover such a downward trend in his thoughts. And he has not yet given up those ideas, which are obsessions months in the making. Did he return to his friends' observation, he would be smothered with affection, but none of it would go to breaking down the obsessions. The Headmaster, faced with many other cares as the Dark Lord's attacks escalate, would not be able to give him the time and attention he needs. I can. And I will not believe, as others would, that he is healed when he is not. _

_At the present time, I will not tell you where we are, or how vulnerable Potter still is. I may say he is physically out of danger, and I hope to soon bring him in the same mental point. But we will not return among wizards for some time. That means we have nearly no way of learning information about the Dark Lord. _

_Owls can pass through my wards if I allow them to do so. I would ask you to send more information, if you care about Potter's success in this war. _

_I know that you probably feel more like hanging me for a Dark wizard's trick right now than helping me. But when you help me, you help Potter. Did you refuse, I would still continue to stay hidden with him, and you would lose an opportunity that would also benefit your Ministry. I do not know what the state of the wizarding world will be with Potter gone, but I can guess._

_Respectfully yours, _

_Severus Snape._

Rufus grimaced. Yes, he _did_ feel like hanging the man, and he wanted to be certain that he wasn't telling the truth. But the story fit too well with the shadows he'd seen in Potter's eyes himself, and the odd chaos and confusion of clues left behind. And try though he might, Rufus couldn't see Snape writing from among the Death Eaters while they sported with Potter's body behind him. Having studied You-Know-Who's movements in the last few months, Rufus thought he knew him well enough to say that You-Know-Who would make the execution of his greatest enemy a public affair. Killing Potter in secret could always lead to doubt that he was dead, and thus greater hope and morale for the Light side.

So, Potter _might_ be dying among the Death Eaters, but Rufus did not think so.

Of course, he could go and ask the man who had known Severus Snape better than anyone what he thought—if Dumbledore would give him a straight answer.

_No matter what he believes or wants to do, I must try to make him give me one, _Rufus thought, standing. _This is more important than the petty little power games he plays. _He grimaced again. _Or, for that matter, that I play._

* * *

It wasn't until he strode through the entrance doors into Hogwarts and Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley actually ran to meet him that Rufus realized he had a source of information he hadn't considered.

He'd met them before, of course, the evening after Potter's disappearance, when they came and reported on the fruitless efforts they'd made to find their friend. Granger's face had grown more haggard since then, but her eyes _burned_. Her strength seemed to keep Weasley on his feet as well, though a flashing glint in the boy's gaze led Rufus to suspect that wouldn't last much longer. When they'd recovered from the shock enough, they would fling themselves headlong into efforts to locate Potter.

Rufus felt a strong twitch in the back of his head. He'd felt that before, a few times in the course of his political career, wildly telling him that a certain course of action was right, and laying it out before him in no uncertain terms. Once, it had been disastrously wrong. The other times, it had been completely right, and had eventually resulted in him becoming Head of the Auror Office and then Minister.

He might regret this, but he did not think so. As for dealing with adolescents, the main objection to such a plan, Potter was an adolescent, too, and he was the consequence on which this war hung. Sometimes, Rufus thought, he just had to trust people younger than himself. He did it every day in the Ministry, and some of his Aurors were not much older than Granger and Weasley.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley," he said, with a nod, and waved them into an alcove at the side of the entrance hall. "Just the young wizards I was looking for."

"Is this about Harry?" Weasley demanded instantly, and took an eager step forward. Rufus studied him again. It was not true yet, but in the matter of six months or a year, he would feel sorry for any Death Eater who got at the end of this boy's wand.

"It is." Rufus drew the letter he'd received from his robe, ignoring the instincts that screamed at him to pull backwards and not be so impetuous. There was a kind of wisdom and knowledge that lay outside books, and depended on reading people around him. A Gryffindor would act like this all the time; a Slytherin would be paralyzed without his plans. Rufus did like to think he, as a former Ravenclaw, combined the best of both worlds and both ways of acting. "I need you to tell me if you've seen this handwriting before." He extended the letter.

He would say nothing to prejudice the children, but—

"That's Professor Snape's handwriting," Granger said in an instant, her eyes narrowed and already scanning the words. Rufus saw her hands twitching, and suspected she fought to keep from snatching the letter out of his grasp. "What is it, sir? Does _he_ have Harry?" She raised her gaze, and some of the hopelessness had gone out of it.

"Of course he does," Weasley breathed, and the aura of power and danger he was radiating grew a bit.

"I think so," Rufus acknowledged quietly. He made another impetuous decision and handed the letter to Granger, then stood silently by while they read it. He saw a single massive flinch pass through both of them at the same time, and guessed they'd read the part about where Potter had tried to commit suicide.

"Do _you_ think that's true, sir?" Weasley asked, looking up at him. "That Harry would really try to kill himself?"

"I fear so," Rufus said steadily. "He had a look in his eyes when we first met that I did not like, and every time that I saw him thereafter. But I believed that, if there _was_ any danger, the people who knew him better would catch it."

Granger and Weasley took on looks of intense guilt, and went back to reading the letter as closely as twins. Then Granger leaned back against the wall and assumed a pose of thought.

"I need you to tell me if you can," Rufus said, and once again ignored the shrieking of his instincts. Yes, he was reposing confidence where perhaps it oughtn't to be reposed, but he had started on this course, and he'd got nowhere with Dumbledore. "The Headmaster holds back and is reticent with me, because I'm the Minister. Do you think this is true? Would Snape do something like this?"

The two were silent for a moment, and Rufus's eyebrows climbed. _So I was right, and they do have secrets that it's unusual for adolescents to carry. _

"Yes," Granger said at last, so quietly that Rufus almost couldn't hear her. "Yes, I think he would. He's—well, you know he was a Death Eater, sir." She looked up at him, and Rufus recognized a sudden desperate trust of her own.

"I've seen the trial records," Rufus assured her.

Granger nodded, biting her lip. "And he—he showed his Dark Mark to Minister Fudge, when V-Voldemort first came back and Dumbledore needed some way to prove it." Rufus was more impressed than he could say that Granger had enough nerve to say the name, but kept that to himself. He did notice that she nudged Weasley hard in the elbows with a rib when he flinched. "He worked here with Dumbledore's permission and full knowledge, sir. He was—he was a spy, I think, as far as I know." She looked up. "A spy for Dumbledore, in the Order of the Phoenix."

Rufus gave her a grim smile. She looked worried, and he knew she was wondering how far her information would inconvenience the Headmaster.

"I want to work with Dumbledore," he said quietly. "We are supposed to be allies, not enemies. I've heard some information about the Order of the Phoenix before." Suddenly confronting Hestia Jones, the Auror Potter had warned him to be wary of, and playing on her oath of loyalty to the Ministry, had brought a confession and a flood of tears. She was still very young, and newly-inducted into the Order. Of course, she couldn't tell him much about it, not being much trusted yet, but Rufus knew enough to realize that they existed, and that they followed Dumbledore's orders, and that their main motive was supposed to be hunting You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. "Do you think I can trust Professor Snape?"

"Yes," said Granger, at the same moment as Weasley said, "No."

Rufus smiled wryly. _That settles that. _"Do you think he has Potter?"

"Yes, sir," Granger said, after glancing for a moment at Weasley, who remained silent. "I do."

"That is enough for me," Rufus said firmly. "Whether his motive for writing is true, he still has Potter in his power, and if Potter really isn't recovering from drinking this poison, whatever it was, right now, we must still assume Snape has the ability to do him harm if he wants." He evaluated the adolescents again, and noticed both their chins had lifted. "Can you investigate for me?" he added. "Try to find out information on the poison Potter brewed, where Snape might have fled to, any suspicious things Potter left behind? I can look on my own, of course, but I can't give my days and nights to the search. You have more time."

"Yes," said Granger instantly, and Weasley's acceptance followed a moment later. Rufus suspected he'd gained greatly in their eyes from treating them like adults.

"Very well," he said, and shook hands with both of them. "I hope to see you soon." He paused, then added quietly, "If you want to keep anything from the Headmaster, don't meet his eyes—he's a Legilimens—and don't eat his sweets or drink the tea he serves you."

He turned and strode upstairs, to confront Dumbledore. The old man might or might not tell him anything useful; at least he'd gained a few basic facts, and, hopefully, a pair of willing allies.

He heard, when he was several feet away, Weasley say, in tones of exasperation, "He's _alive_, Hermione, and you said you trust Snape. Why are you crying _now_?"

Rufus smiled a bit, and quickened his steps.

* * *

_The essence of Legilimency is the willingness to plunder another mind. Without that—whether the Legilimens ever uses the skill is beside the point—one cannot hope to advance in it. Even those with minimal talent but an acceptance of their own domineering tendencies do better than those with great innate talent but a creeping cowardice that prevents them from full exercise of their powers._

Harry grimaced and rubbed his temples. Well, the author of _this_ book agreed with Snape, at least.

Harry wasn't sure that he did.

After the great shock, yesterday, when Snape had told him he was Dark and Harry had half-accepted it just because it seemed to make so much sense, a fierce battle had arisen in his head. It still raged there, though he was able to keep turning the pages of the book in front of him, and even absorbing information from it, in such a way that Snape hadn't yet said anything to him.

Harry was wondering why he should believe anything Snape said, let alone this.

He had been startled to find that, as the pain receded and his determination came forward again, he still had some of the same clarity of mind he'd attained during the summer. Then, it had let him measure how important every minor action he performed was next to his larger plan. Now, it was letting him survive from moment to moment until he could figure out conclusively what to do.

So, he had to think logically about why Snape would want to make him believe he was Dark. He wouldn't decide now if it was true or not. He just wanted to think about Snape's motives.

There were two motives he could think of immediately. One was to torment James Potter's son. The other was to gain a kind of ascendancy over Harry, a claim of kinship. He'd emphasized the Potions and Legilimency talents he believed Harry to have, and de-emphasized the spells. That could have been because of Harry's weakness, but nothing Snape did was ever that simple. No, he wanted a student practicing the same arts he was expert in because that would make him easier to control, _and_ it could go a long way towards convincing the student they were manifestly alike.

If he believed he had a teacher he could trust in Snape, what would he do?

Harry hid his scowl in the book. _Probably trust him at some point, and do what he told me to. I did a great many foolish things because I trusted Dumbledore implicitly._

Defeating Voldemort was still the most important thing. He couldn't doubt that. He had to have the tools that would allow him to do that. If those tools were Potions and Legilimency, he'd learn and wield them.

But Harry didn't want to lose his soul while he fought Voldemort. He might already be a Dark wizard, innately, the way Snape had argued, but there _was_ still room for doubt on that score. And Harry wouldn't accept it just because Snape had said so. If he could locate definitions of Dark wizards like the ones Snape had given him in other books, then perhaps he'd believe it.

What weapons he used and how he used them might not be up to him. _Why_ he used them still was.

He was willing to inflict any pain on himself for the sake of the war, and any pain on Voldemort. And though he still felt a shadow of repugnance against torturing Snape, it was only a shadow, so probably he'd be able to inflict any pain there, as well.

But only the conviction that it was temporary, because soon he'd die and couldn't hurt anyone even if he wished to, had ever let him inflict pain on other people, such as Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, and even Malfoy. That didn't sound to _Harry_ as if he had innate tendencies towards hatred and malice. If he was going to live, he had to think clearly, but that didn't mean abandoning everything he'd believed in because Snape wanted him to.

And he believed that it was wrong, even still, even now, to hurt other people.

Harry turned another page, and looked carefully at a section Snape had advised him to pay close attention to, a section that would let him call up the deepest dreams and desires of another Legilimens. Though his eyes absorbed the words, though, his brain was racing along a different track.

He had only the books Snape gave him, here. He didn't even know what was happening at Hogwarts now, and he had no way of studying other techniques than Potions, Legilimency, and maybe Dark Arts. He certainly had no one else to ask about whether they thought he was Dark. Left alone with Snape for months, he might come to believe it just because the only other person with him believed it, and because Harry doubted while Snape was absolutely certain.

He had to open a channel of communication with someone else. And the people Harry trusted the most were still Ron and Hermione.

Of course, Snape would hardly give him an owl, even if he had one. So how did he communicate with them?

Harry bit his lip thoughtfully. He'd skimmed through the books on Legilimency once before choosing which one to read first, and he'd seen sections on dream magic and summoning animals from a distance. He didn't know if the dream magic only worked on another Occlumens or Legilimens; it might, which would mean that he couldn't send dreams to Ron or Hermione. But if he could learn how to call an animal, it was possible that he might be able to summon Hedwig. She was more familiar to him than any other animal, and had always seemed more attuned to his moods, too.

A stab of pain in his stomach made him hiss aloud with the unexpectedness of it, and Snape, who'd been reading on the other side of the room, at once stood and came over to him with a vial of potion in his hand. "You have been studying long enough for today, Potter," he said. "Time to sleep."

Harry doubted Snape thought he'd overtaxed himself. The sadistic glee in his eyes just came from having someone to control, and he liked ordering the way Harry slept, and ate, and studied, and even went to the loo.

_And he'd like to control what I think, too, and make me believe that I'm Dark._

Harry leaned back on his pillow, never taking his eyes from Snape's. It was a comfort to know the man couldn't read his thoughts now, no matter how hard he tried. Harry could stare stonily at him as he swallowed the potion, until the moment the sleeping draught made his eyelids flutter and descend.

He clung to his resolution even as he began to drift. He _was_ going to find a way to communicate with Ron and Hermione, probably by calling Hedwig to him so she could deliver a letter. He'd find a way through Snape's wards, too.

He'd fight his way clear of the battle in his head and refuse to believe he was Dark, as long as he could find sufficient proof one way or another. And even if he was Dark, that didn't mean he _had_ to act like that. Thoughts and behavior could be different.

He'd find a way to defeat Voldemort.

And then, he'd find a way to repay his debt to Sirius.


	28. Instrumentalization

Thanks again for the reviews! And yes, Harry does have a scheme of redemption in mind, but he may not ever get to exercise it.

_Chapter 28—Instrumentalization_

Rufus sent away the owl that held the letter for Snape with a troubled heart. It was probably all right, reporting this information to him, that the Death Eaters had permission to kill him on sight and that many in Hogwarts believed he'd kidnapped Potter, but he couldn't be _absolutely_ sure. The doubts continued to linger in the back of his mind and torment him with ideas about what would happen if he were wrong.

Of course, that had always been his greatest weakness as a politician, that need for absolute certainty, and he was attempting to dispense with it. He turned resolutely away from the window when he was done, and started to sit down at his desk again. His home was coming to look more and more like his Ministry office these days, so full of paperwork that it was hard to see wood or cloth underneath.

A whir of wings let him know another owl had arrived. Rufus turned in surprise, but it wasn't the bird he'd just sent off. It looked like an ordinary barn owl, one of those who might fly for Hogwarts. He went to fetch a bite of bacon from his dinner plate for it, and untied the letter it carried with some curiosity.

It was from Hermione Granger, and short.

_December 31st, 1996_

_Dear Minister Scrimgeour: _

_I remembered that I'd seen Harry with a Potions book out of the library once, and I went and found it. It fell open at one page immediately, as if he'd spent a lot of time looking at that particular potion. It's the recipe for Medea's Draught, an illegal poison that dissolves the internal organs, sets the body on fire, and then draws and quarters it. If Harry brewed that, then he really meant to die, and he wanted to do it in a way that meant nothing could save him._

_Sincerely, _

_Hermione Granger._

Rufus gave a grim little nod and wrote a short note of thanks, which the Hogwarts owl hopped into the air with. Then he sat down briefly to consider what that meant.

Potter had not only wanted to die, he'd wanted to die with especial viciousness and pain to himself. That surprised Rufus. Most of the people he knew who'd committed suicide had sought a painless method. It was death, not torture or punishment, they wanted.

This lent a bit more credibility to Snape's story, at least. If the poison had managed to act on Potter, he'd need to spend a lot of time under a Healer's care—though a Potions master could do in a pinch. It would be weeks before he'd be able to do more than stagger about.

It also made Rufus worry more than he was already doing for the savior of the wizarding world.

Then he shook his head briskly. He couldn't do anything _but_ worry about Potter from his present position. He was better off working with Granger and Weasley, attending to the normal business of the Ministry that made it more likely they'd catch Death Eaters, and working on Dumbledore. The old man had given him a few tidbits of information, but was still reluctant to speak. He seemed to suspect _Rufus_ of having kidnapped Potter, ridiculous as that plainly was.

And Rufus wanted to be open, wanted to risk it, but the Headmaster would almost certainly do unpleasant things with the idea that the Potions professor he'd sacked had Potter.

So, for right now, he'd do what he could, and leave the rest in the hands of those more qualified to do it.

* * *

Severus eased gently into the boy's mind. He'd used a particularly potent sleeping draught tonight, the first time he'd been able to do so without a chance that it would mix with the healing potions and cause internal bleeding. The Occlumency shields, even now, remained locked tight. They'd become instinctive to Potter, and he would no more sleep without them than he would without breathing.

But this ferment between pure sleep and pure waking, when dreams and random images tumbled across his mind, was Severus's natural hunting ground. He set his Legilimency to work, extending down great probes of the kind he'd encouraged Potter to study, spearing some of the boy's deepest desires like fish and dragging them to the surface.

He'd said he was willing to take extreme measures to keep Potter alive. These were some of them. Potter was right, as far as he'd spoken, about the Healers in St. Mungo's. They would try to talk him around, and if he appeared to respond to their inane words, he could fool them into leaving him alone far too early. Severus couldn't be fooled like that. He would _make_ the boy leave these stupid ideas about repaying Black and dying himself behind.

The boy's desires came up, wriggling, like the fish. Severus sneered as he examined them. The first was to defeat the Dark Lord, of course; it would have been surprising if it were not. The second was to consider himself as worthy of love and affection from other people. Lately, it had received a sharp twist to the right; Potter wanted to believe he wasn't Dark, that he could stop short of hurting anyone he didn't need to hurt.

Severus snorted. He had a lesson that should stop that nonsense, and teach the boy a little more about himself.

The third wish made him pause. It was the desire to die. At the deepest levels of his mind, Potter had managed to thwart and baffle his own self-preservation instinct.

A little looking showed a reason why it was so. A skilled Legilimens could convince someone else it would be better for him to kill himself, but it was usually more trouble than it was worth, since it required long and careful months of work and intense eye contact. Potter had used his Legilimency on _himself_. Severus had wondered that the talent for it he sensed in the boy did not appear to have paced the growth of his Occlumency. Now he knew where it had gone. Potter had twisted his own natural instincts back on each other, and now, underneath the ideas that _he_ probably thought were primary—the ones about the War and the people who were important to him—this still lingered. Potter would probably, now, kill the Dark Lord, reassure his friends he was well, and then try to put his affairs in order and die again.

How could Severus repair the damage?

He could not, not all at once. But the training he had in mind to encourage Potter's hatred and desire for vengeance could still work, as long as it gave him an object to live for and not die for.

And then the perfect form for the lesson in the morning came to him, and Severus smiled and withdrew from Potter's mind. It was settling into a denser dream state, and it would not do for him to be detected here.

* * *

"I thought I'd have a few more days to rest." Harry was aware that his voice sounded sullen, and that his folded arms were clamped across his chest like a shut door, but he didn't care. What Snape had asked of him was impossible.

"This is not like wand-magic." Snape was merciless, pacing around the small room Harry was becoming heartily sick of, his eyes fixed on Harry. "You need not prance around the room and dodge countercurses. You can use your mind when you are flat on your back—though, until now, you have always been singularly reluctant to do so—and I insist that you learn this."

"I'm probably going to fail at it—"

"Of course you will, if you have predetermined that you will." Snape's voice had become soft and eager, as if he would rejoice in Harry's failure just as much as his triumph. He probably would.

_Smug bastard. If I fail, it's my fault, but if I succeed, he's going to take the credit for training me. _

"Concentrate, boy," Snape snapped, and his face wore the familiar expression of irritation now. "I _know_ you can do this. You can escape into incompetence no longer. You _can_ use Legilimency, and you will."

Harry turned and snarled at him. He wanted to control his reactions, but that seemed harder this morning, as though someone had stepped into his mind and disturbed the normal pattern of his thoughts. "You're the one who thinks I have some sort of natural talent for it. I don't. And what you want me to do is—is sick." Snape had revealed this morning that he didn't want Harry to just go into dreams or probe another person's thoughts. He wanted Harry ready to tear the mind apart, to use the deepest desires to spin his victim around a hook, and use the dreams to make sleep a worse torture than nightmares could be.

"Ah."

Harry looked at Snape warily. He'd halted, and he was tapping a finger against his lips, eyes locked on Harry's.

"So," he said, "you refuse to use tactics like this? 'Sick,' as you have defined them?" His voice dripped with contempt for the term.

"Exactly." Harry took a few deep breaths to regain his self-control. This wasn't like the more subtle games they'd played, when he was calmer. Snape was pressing him hard, driving him around and around in circles, giving him no chance to recover. "There are limits to what I'm willing to do," he said, and tried to remember the confidence he'd heard Dumbledore use when speaking of the Dark Arts and how it was wrong to use them. "What does it matter if I win the war but then take Voldemort's place as the next Dark Lord?"

Snape burst out laughing. "You are not strong enough to do that, Potter," he said when he finished. "The Dark Lord has immense knowledge and a ruthless willingness to use whatever he must to win the fight, yes, but he also has a great deal of raw power, and in that, you will never match him."

Harry wanted to say that meant he'd probably never defeat him, but he held his tongue. He _was_ committed to defeating him, though he didn't yet know the particular Legilimency techniques that would let him do so. "Then I'll still corrupt myself," he said. "I don't want to learn to love pain and cruelty for their own sakes. I don't—" He wavered. He wanted to say that he'd never use them even in the service of his ends, but what if—

As if he could read his thoughts straight through the Occlumency shields, Snape came in just then.

"And you care more about your own corruption than about the defeat of the Dark Lord, Potter?" he asked, his voice soft. "Fascinating. I would never have pictured you capable of such a level of self-absorption, and I thought I knew the heights you could scale in your arrogance."

Harry shuddered. An intense image filled his mind, of his refusing to stab Voldemort through the heart just because of the quality of the blade he held. What did it matter whether it was made of gold or iron, so long as it did the job?

But he was still sure there was something wrong with that. It sounded far too much like what Voldemort had said to him in his first year during the confrontation in front of the Mirror of Erised, that there was no good or evil, only power. If the ends justified the means, why not use any ends you wanted?

"That's not what I mean," he said, and was gratified to hear that his voice retained some dignity, instead of collapsing into a whinge. "Just that—there must be other methods to defeat him beyond pain and cruelty."

"There are not," Snape said softly, and whirled around and around Harry's bed like a prowling werewolf. His eyes never seemed to move, of course, no matter how often his body turned. Harry kept his head bowed, refusing to meet his gaze. "Legilimency is the art of mental _domination_, Potter. Why do you think the Ministry restricts its use, and insists on those who learn it having a teacher? Because they might become drunk on their power and enter the minds of innocents. But the Dark Lord cannot be conceived of as an innocent in any sense of the word, and neither is the other target I plan for you to practice on before him. If you hold back now, if you refuse to do what must be done, you doom more and more people to needless death. Do you _want_ that?"

"_No!_"

For the first time since he'd been here—maybe he hadn't been healed enough before this—Harry felt his magic rattle the bed beneath him. Snape never stopped once in his circling, though.

"Control, Potter," he snarled, his voice drifting past his ears like smoke. "It is not magic of that nature that will win the battle for you. You know what _must_ be done." He paused, then added mockingly, "Well? If you can come up with a different explanation, a different method of attacking the Dark Lord, I will listen."

Harry bowed his head and once again pulled on his control with deep breaths. Snape was right about one thing, at least: sheer magic wouldn't win the battle for him. Voldemort was always going to be stronger at that, and their wands being brothers meant Harry couldn't use most spells, either.

Mental magic might be the only choice, but he still wondered why it had to be _these_ particular Legilimency techniques.

"Not all Legilimency can be that evil," he said quietly. "I don't think the Headmaster would have let you teach me last year, if it was."

"Curious value judgments you have as to magic," Snape mused, still sweeping around him. "Calling it _evil_, when it is merely effective against an enemy. And that Legilimency I used was still the art of dominating your mind, Potter. The idea was that you would grow competent enough in Occlumency to push me out of your mind in sheer self-defense." He struck him with a glance like a whip. "Of course, it took Black's death to do that instead. Your power is intimately connected with death. Why fight or ignore the connection? Use it as a source of strength."

Harry clenched his hands. Two equally horrible visions filled his mind. In one, he had lost all sense of proportion and just laughed and laughed over the dying and broken bodies of his enemies—anyone who had stood between him and Voldemort, and he could twist matters so that they'd "stood between him and Voldemort" easily, no matter what they'd actually done.

In the other vision, he failed, and had to watch his friends and more Muggleborn and Muggle children dying, and know it was because he hadn't wanted to do something that could have saved them. He'd said he was willing to inflict any pain on himself. Could he draw the line at this, because he wanted to keep his own soul and hands clean and pure? They'd blame him for holding back when he had a weapon that could have killed Voldemort, and they'd blame him rightly.

Harry gave a convulsive shiver, and swallowed a few times. Then he chose the vision that seemed less horrible to him and accorded better with his principles. If he went too far into Darkness, he'd have to trust that Snape would see it and stop him, or that he'd summon the strength, once more, to destroy himself. Holding back and trying to find some other way when he had no idea what that other way could be, though, wasn't to be thought of. Here was a clear path in front of him. He would follow it, for now.

"All right," he said softly.

"What does that mean?" Snape still kept up his relentless circles.

"I'll do my best to understand and use Legilimency under you." Harry shook his head. "I'll trust you, I suppose, to stop me if I go too far." His voice was sardonic on those words. Could it help but be? He _didn't_ trust Snape.

Snape dropped abruptly out of his endless circling and sat down on the edge of the bed. Startled, Harry drew back. He was never this close except when he poured a potion down Harry's throat, and he usually remained standing for that.

"You believe you will become evil if you do this," Snape said.

There was no use in concealing that. Harry gave a small nod. He _could_ hide how much he doubted Snape's definitions, how he didn't want to believe he was a Dark wizard, and how, even if he was, that didn't mean he had to act on it. That was a private part of the struggle.

"Has it ever occurred to you that the definitions of good and evil the wizarding world uses are more than a bit off?" Snape asked, his voice sly.

Harry wrinkled his forehead. "Of course. Everyone just accepts that Lucius Malfoy was acting under the Imperius Curse for years, or at least they did until they put him in Azkaban—"

"I do not mean for you to confirm your prejudices against those you already hate," Snape said sharply. "I mean for you to consider the whitewashing of those you once trusted. What is the difference between Dumbledore and a Dark wizard?"

"Of what kind?" Harry taunted, feeling the old antagonistic spirit rise up in him.

"Of all kinds," Snape said with iron patience. "Compare him to all the kinds I told you about."

Harry sighed and leaned back on the pillows, this time cudgeling his memory. "He's never tortured anyone that I know of," he said. "And he's never used Dark Arts, either, that I know of."

Silence grew like a living presence to the side of him. Harry looked towards Snape, and saw him wearing a private smile.

"Has he?" Harry asked tensely.

Snape only gave a slight shrug, and said, "The other two definitions?"

"He doesn't just want power."

"Do you know that?"

Harry gritted his teeth. He knew what Snape was trying to do—get into his mind and plant a seed of doubt. He couldn't allow that to happen. He'd already given far too many victories to Snape this morning, in his own agitation over the idea of becoming Dark. "Yes," he said. "If he did, he could have become Minister."

"And roused opposition against himself?" Snape's voice had grown even softer, slipping into Harry's ears like an oiled serpent. "No, that is not his way. He does not wield the iron fist openly. Better to draw the velvet glove over it, and therefore reassure those who might take fright. And the guise of a harmless old man, which he has been wearing for far longer than you have been alive, is useful to him."

"That doesn't prove that he wants power," Harry pointed out. "Both the Dark wizards you used as examples for me were open in their pursuit of it. Umbridge had the _excuse_ of working for other people to keep the students safe, but anyone with eyes could see she didn't mean that."

"And those who have eyes to see can learn the truth about the Headmaster," Snape said. "He is merely more subtle than they were."

Harry refused to be drawn into that discussion. If Snape wasn't going to give him solid accusations, he would pass on to the fourth definition. "And it's hard for me to imagine him full of hatred."

"When he took away the House Cup victory from Slytherin, to give it to Gryffindor?" Snape cocked his head. "When he made exceptions for you constantly, not simply to give you a chance to fight the Dark Lord, but to demean Slytherin House—such as giving you permission to have your own broom in your first year? When he permitted four Gryffindors he was fond of to remain in school instead of filing attempted murder charges against them? His hatred may not be directed at any group that most people care about, Potter, but it is there, if you know where to look." He leaned nearer and lowered his voice. "It was a group that you were nearly part of." Harry started. "Oh, yes, he told me about the Sorting Hat's consideration of Slytherin for you. I almost would have liked to see you choose my House. A pretty puzzle that would have presented Dumbledore, figuring out how to exercise his hatred against someone he needed to give extra opportunities and privileges."

Harry shook his head. "He favors Gryffindor, but he doesn't _hate_ Slytherin—"

"Then why not lessen the prejudice against us?" Snape raised an eyebrow. "He could, so respected is he. No, a few words from him would not entirely clear it, but it would change the current of the wind. Instead, he is content to let one House remain at the bottom of the pile, despised by all even when they win, because it is the House that he dislikes himself. Because his hatred is contracted inside the smaller world of Hogwarts does not mean it does not exist."

Harry lowered his head, disturbed. It did seem, well, strange, looked at from this angle, that he'd been permitted to have his Nimbus and that Dumbledore had given the House Cup to Gryffindor instead of rewarding Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville in some other substantial way that wouldn't set Slytherin against them. Because that was what gestures like that did, of course: embittered the House feud. Dumbledore was wise enough to have found some other reward.

And wise enough to have known what that kind of gesture would do.

"If we placed the Sorting Hat on your head now," Snape said, "it would set you in my House, without a doubt. Consider that carefully, Mr. Potter, before you call Slytherin evil. And consider whether, had it ignored your pleas all those years ago, you would have been evil then. At eleven? Are you sure?" He paused, then added, "What is the essence of evil? Wearing a crest or having a reputation that others consider Dark? Or refusing to make decisions that only you can make?"

Harry pushed the whirling considerations that wanted to add themselves to the front of his mind sharply away. He'd made a decision, and he would stick to his principles on it. The other things Snape had told him would have to wait their turn.

"I want to practice Legilimency now," he said curtly.

Snape remained a moment, staring at him. Then he drew back with a satisfied smile, and sat down in the chair. "Begin," he said, locking his eyes with Harry's.

Harry grimly reached out, trying to probe into Snape's deepest desires. Of course, his thoughts were turned easily aside, but he imagined the same things happening that he'd seen in his visions of Voldemort, and pushed himself harder.

* * *

Severus was well content. He'd introduced enough ferment into the boy's waking mind, as well as sleeping, to distract him somewhat from the thoughts he'd been shaping himself, thoughts that would have anchored him in the "Light" again, with scarcely a change in the current of his convictions. He'd made Potter think about things he didn't want to think about, and which he would, inevitably, think about more hereafter.

And he'd distracted Potter implicitly from thoughts of suicide by showing him how many problems in life still remained to be settled.

Potter fancied himself a hero. Give him a cause to fight for, like that of the poor misunderstood Slytherins, and make it important enough to him, and he would have to remain alive even after the Dark Lord was defeated, in order to fight for it.

Severus entertained another vision now: not just a Potter under his control, or Dark, but one convinced that Dumbledore was wrong and that Slytherins were far more than he'd given them credit for. That could redound to the glory of his House.

He might as well look ahead. Potter could refuse to do so and end every vision in his death, but Snape had ambition enough for both of them.


	29. Coils of the Python

Thanks again for the reviews! So far, no one has accurately predicted the direction of the story, but that's what I want; I like stories with plot twists, so I'm endeavoring to write one. And it should come a bit clearer here.

_Chapter 29—Coils of the Python_

_**All** branches of Legilimency use the belief in one's own mind as home ground. It depends partly on experience—of course a Legilimens who has lived in his or her own mind for years will have the advantage over a Legilimens entering it for the first time—and partly on a form of delusion that, false or not, works as true when cultivated. As in so many parts of the art, a sense of domination, of comfort with and control over one's own thoughts, is also necessary. It is far easier to destroy a depressed Legilimens, or someone who has lost and continues to lose her temper._

Harry scowled. He could feel Snape's eyes on him, and knew why the bastard had wanted him to read this part of the book. That didn't mean he had to like it. He dug further into the blankets on the bed and continued reading.

_This sense of "home" also explains why most Legilimency takes place with eye contact, and even tactics like the Siren Song are used to lure another Legilimens into sight or, more rarely, into the mind of the attacker, as for the Beholding maze. Engaging with an enemy over his memories is risky enough. Trying to set a Beholding trap in his mind would be the height of madness. _

Harry rubbed his scar. _Another thing that makes me "special," I suppose, since Voldemort can reach me across the miles. But he didn't possess me until he was in the same room I was. So it's not easy even for him to fight the harder battle without eye contact. _

"Time for more practice, Potter."

He groaned under his breath as he pushed the book away and turned to face Snape. "Do we have to?" he asked, and he didn't care if his voice whinged. "You know I'm no good at this—"

"_Legilimens!_"

Harry reacted instinctively, snapping his Occlumency shields shut over his memories. Snape reached in further and faster than he could remember him doing before, though, easily plucking up some thought of Dudley's tenth birthday party that Harry could have sworn was safe behind the shields and splaying it out over the surface of his mind like some helpless, crawling creature.

"You are growing worse instead of better," Snape said, cold disgust in his voice.

"I don't know _why!_" Harry yelled, and felt his magic make the bed shake again. He lowered his voice and fought for self-control. "I've done more studying now, and you continue to insist I have this natural talent for Legilimency—"

"You do, but at the moment, you are pouring all of it into beliefs that will not help you," Snape hissed, leaning forward. "In effect, Potter, what you come to believe is a form of self-hypnosis once you are a Legilimens. While you planned to die, you believed you should be in a state of calm invincibility, and so you were. Now you believe you should be in a state of anger at me, and you _also_ believe you should die, and you do not want to be Dark. Those three prongs together combine to heighten your temper and weaken your effectiveness at techniques that might let you kill the Dark Lord and live. You claim to have made the decision that you will sacrifice _any_ amount of time, take on _any_ amount of pain, to defeat him, but still you are stopped in your tracks because you pour so much _more_ energy into fueling your own death wish!"

Harry blinked. He hadn't even _thought_ of that conclusion, though a few of the books he'd read insisted on the importance of belief in making a mind impregnable, or even hard to access. If he thought of his shields as full of holes, they would be. But he'd thought he would be all right if he could only imagine solid shields.

It seemed, though, that Snape was right. His determination remained as strong as ever, but it didn't have the focus it had when he could select one definite date and plan to die then, and he hesitated now, torn between knowing he should live and wanting to die. That weakened his shields, and it would weaken any effort that he could make as far as Legilimency went.

Of course, he shouldn't believe Snape without some kind of proof either. Snape _wanted_ him to think he was Dark. That was enough for Harry to fight against accepting his words.

But what he had said about Dumbledore made so much sense…

Harry, in his distraction, still noticed the tiny prickling and jiggling at the outer edges of his mind. He pulled his shields up and glared at Snape, wondering what kind of trick he was trying to pull now.

A low laugh rang in his head, and Voldemort's voice said, _Not your traitorous professor, Potter._

And then Voldemort's mind lashed around his like the coils of a huge snake, and the battle began.

* * *

Severus hissed under his breath as Potter slumped on the bed, his eyes rolling back in his skull. He guessed at once what had happened; the inflamed appearance of Potter's scar and the dull burn in his own Dark Mark made him certain he was right.

_Only the Dark Lord would be arrogant enough to invade the mind of another Legilimens, and fight him on home ground. _

_But Potter does not believe that his mind is home ground, and he lacks even the will to defend it when he wants that mind to cease to exist. So the Dark Lord may win after all._

That could not be, not when Severus had thrown his die and chosen Potter's side—or his own side with Potter on it, which was more accurate. He would have to help, as he had on the Tower. He reached out with fast, calm motions, seizing Potter's head between his hands and holding it still so he couldn't thrash. Eyes fixed on Potter's wide, unseeing ones, he pushed himself inside the boy's head.

It was terrifyingly easily. Potter had let his own shields go in an attempt to fight with this foreign presence slithering around him. Severus would have shaken his head if he were still in enough control of his own body to do so. One should always have enough control to hold a calm platform in the midst of the storm, through death and bodily pain and the attempts of another Legilimens to get in.

Potter did not care enough about himself for that, and he _still_ had not accepted his own Darkness. If he were that busy fighting a portion of his mind, of course enemies would take advantage of the gaps in his defenses.

Severus threw aside his conjectures for now. He had to help, not to scold. The Dark Lord was strong, of course, but he was not without weaknesses here, and Severus knew the boy's mind better than he did.

He whirled probes down into Potter's mind, keeping one eye on the progress of the battle. Since Potter did not care about himself, only one technique would make him truly _react_, and it would have to be his own native strength that drove the Dark Lord away, since Severus was a stranger here, too, however well-intentioned.

* * *

Harry knew he'd hurt more from the Medea's Draught, but at the moment, it really didn't feel like it.

Ripples of power traveled through Voldemort's mind, and curled all around his thoughts like a python's coils. Every time Harry relaxed, it was like losing a bit more air, and finding the coils closer against his lungs and ribs. Voldemort could have killed him faster, of course, but he was rather taking delight in Harry's slow death than otherwise.

_Defend yourself, _he taunted, during another tightening. _Can you not defend yourself from me, master Occlumens that you are? Such protection should be instinctive. But not for poor Harry Potter, of course, boy hero, nobly giving up his life so others can live._

That was his proof that what Snape said was right, Harry supposed. Without the wish to live, he stood little chance of throwing Voldemort from his mind. The same thing had happened last year, when he hadn't wanted to block the dreams because he desired so badly to know what they meant.

But it wasn't so easy to shed one belief and take up another. Even through Voldemort's taunting and his realization about Snape, Harry's mind still said, _Is dying so bad?_

No, it wasn't, it really wasn't. He would rejoin Sirius that way, and perhaps his parents, too. The same way he'd wanted to run towards the Veil last year, and only Remus had stopped him, Harry wanted to slide himself down the gullet of Voldemort's consuming serpent-mind now.

What did it matter? Who would it hurt? Not himself. Not Snape, who had only rescued him out of spite, and who could survive any situation. Not Dumbledore, who had never cared enough in the first place to find out that Harry wanted suicide.

Harry hesitated dreamily, on the verge of lowering his defenses, and stopping himself only because it seemed like so much _work_. Voldemort's serpent paused, too, as if his enemy knew that Harry would give him the victory of his own free will, and delighted in the notion.

And then Snape went past him, and down, and shoved visions at Harry like speared and writhing snakes of his own.

_Ron and Hermione_.

That's who his suicide would hurt.

And in the moment when Harry still hesitated, caught between surprise and protective instinct, Voldemort laughed, and sent him an extremely clear image of what he would do when he caught the Weasley brat and the Granger Mudblood.

Strength came back to Harry in a rush like madness.

* * *

Severus opened his eyes with a gasp, took a breath of the cleansing air, and then plunged back into the combat.

Potter still needed help, but, thank Merlin, the most important part had been achieved, the most important point got. He still cared more about his friends than his own sadness, and the Dark Lord's threat to them had been the last straw. He was, willingly and for the first time, using the techniques Severus had tried to teach him to use in the last few days.

His own probes sank deep into the Dark Lord, seeking bad memories and weak points. The snake-like feeling of power and presence had less of them than the Dark Lord's full mind would have, Severus knew, but he carried with him, always, the image of the night when, on the brink of his greatest triumph, an _infant_ had destroyed him.

Potter did something Severus might have called plucking out that memory and stabbing the Dark Lord in the eye with it.

Crude, but it worked. The moment Potter touched it, and saw the weakness, and laughed at it, the snake's squeeze became an uncoordinated lash. The Dark Lord was trying to cover the memory and continue his attack and punish Potter for his presumption all at once.

And Potter dipped a bit, then rose in glory and hurled all his Darkness straight at an opponent for the first time.

In that moment, he wanted to destroy the wizard who threatened his friends more than he wanted to die, and if the way to that lay through preserving the integrity of his mind, then he would do it. And riding that came all his hatred of the Dark Lord and his attacks over the years, and all that destruction that, until that moment, had been mostly employed in making his mind an uncomfortable place for himself.

The attack struck hard on what would have been the snake's head—the leading and guiding part of the Dark Lord's power. He reared back with a hiss Severus could almost hear, and then Potter flung coils of loathing and longing to kill around him and _pulled._

If he were in the Dark Lord's mind, it would not have sufficed. But now he was using his home advantage and his natural weapons, as well as the fact that only a shadow of his enemy could face him across the miles, without eye contact. He pulled hard enough to split an ordinary snake in half.

And it worked. An explosion of dust and shadow, as Severus envisioned it, traveled past him, and then the Dark Lord was withdrawing his power from Potter's mind, wary, if not respectful. He was not defeated. He could retreat without loss of dignity, and come to terms with what he'd learned, and then attack Potter again with more experience behind him.

Severus laughed soundlessly. So the Dark Lord would always say to himself when he'd sustained a loss, no matter how crippling. His conceit and his strong will would permit nothing less.

He spent a few moments more in Potter's mind, studying the damage and reassuring himself that it was nothing that would not heal naturally, especially now that Potter had awakened all his determination. Then the Occlumency shields firmed again and pushed him out of the boy's thoughts.

* * *

Harry turned as he shed the last remnants of Voldemort's presence, and caught, for a moment, an unguarded glimpse into Snape's mind. The man was occupied in examining Harry's shields, and didn't notice.

_He wants me to be Dark._

He had time to see nothing else, as he drew into himself and then opened his eyes and looked steadily at Snape. A moment later, he dropped his gaze as though embarrassed, and a flush came to color his cheeks and help him.

"You see, now," Snape hissed, "why it is so _important_ that you learn to defend yourself, and wish to live." He paused a moment, and then added, "And accept the Darkness that lives within you."

_Is that what you encouraged me to do, when you showed me Ron and Hermione?_

Harry smiled to himself. He knew, now, that Snape was _partially_ right, and that meant he might be right about other things, too. But he needn't be entirely right, and Harry didn't need to accept everything he said.

Showing open rebellion would avail him nothing; it would only make Snape taunt him more, and keep him from learning useful things that would let him defeat Voldemort. He would create a small room in the back of his mind where the rebellious impulses and the questioning ones could live, and he would keep them there, far from Snape's notice, while on the surface he settled into a sort of sullen compliance.

The sudden blow that Voldemort had inflicted on him was like the opening of a door, or the sight of a mountain. Harry knew not everything had changed—he still wondered what he owed Sirius, for example—but some things had. Suddenly, fighting Snape for control wasn't as important.

_Learning_ from him, and learning what might be right in his view of the world and what was wrong, was.

Harry had had a glimpse of what he could be while he was fighting Voldemort. Dark? Maybe. But, more, _free._ Strong enough to hold his own, strong enough even to kill Voldemort, and perhaps someday to live in a world where he had no major enemies _and_ didn't feel the desire to leave it immediately. Self-control, of the kind he'd had while he was preparing his plan but tuned to life this time, would be a greater boon than immediate physical and mental freedom.

It was the first thing that had so stirred his interest since Sirius's death. And, after the blatant demonstration that he couldn't fight Voldemort as he was, Harry was inclined to consider that important.

But, for right now, he muttered, "Yes. Sir," and opened the compartment in the back of his mind, writing down the first question that he intended to keep free of Snape. It wouldn't lead to him immediately turning on his teacher, anyway, just keeping a skeptical mind about him.

_Is it really necessary that I think of myself as Dark, instead of skilled at a few certain techniques?_

He picked up his book again, and this time truly busied himself with it. Snape would sense something had changed, doubtless, but he would be watching for plots where Harry suddenly tried to surge up and take back control from him. Not this.

_We don't value the same things anymore, Professor, and that's what will lead me to being free of you in the end. You're still playing chess, but I'm playing cards, and our stakes aren't the same._


	30. Moving Faster

Thanks again for the reviews! Harry's turned a corner, and he's about to turn another one.

_Chapter 30—Moving Faster_

Rufus cursed as he staggered across the grounds of Hogwarts, trying frantically to keep up with the Aurors. He'd received a Floo call ten minutes ago; the school was under attack by Death Eaters again, but this time the Aurors had learned of the attack almost as soon as it began, thanks to some of their own they'd left in Hogsmeade. Rufus had dressed—almost certainly putting his robes on backwards—Flooed to the Ministry to meet his Aurors, found they'd already gone ahead, and Apparated to Hogsmeade. Now he was worried that his bad leg would make him miss the battle entirely.

He saw one dark-cloaked figure turn towards him, aiming a wand. Rufus hesitated, wondering who this was; the moonlight made shapes and shadows uncertain. Then a flash of white across the face caught his eye, and he triumphantly cast a Body-Bind on the Death Eater, who pitched forward. Rufus _did_ pause then to cast _Lumos_, and continued his frantic run forward a moment later.

Snow crunched underfoot as he passed through the gates, and he heard the sloppy sound of ice breaking as wizards stepped across it. The glow of curses already lit up the courtyard and bounced in lurid red and green lights across the castle walls. Rufus slowed to a stop, weaving his head like a snake, trying to figure out where he was most needed.

"Sir!"

Rufus turned. A woman with outrageous purple hair had lurched up to him; Rufus recognized her as Tonks in a moment.

"Sir!" she repeated. "They have hostages! Do we negotiate?"

"Of course we _negotiate_," said Rufus, without even thinking about it, and then strode forwards to intercept the two Death Eaters who were openly walking past the Aurors, their arms full of still bundles. He stepped in front of them, and they slowed, looking at him without fear. One was a tall man, his eyes glittering through the slits in the mask. The other gave a cackling laugh, and spoke in a woman's voice, and Rufus knew who she must be.

"How sweet. The Minister will give up his life for the poor little babies, will he?"

It was strange how completely all emotion left him then, even fear and concern for the captured students, and he saw only the cloaks that covered the hostages and the faint way one of them stirred, as if the one in the man's arms were only pretending to be insensible. Rufus caught a glimpse of frizzy brown hair, and thought there might be a good reason for that. "I would," he said, "if that were necessary, Madam Lestrange. But perhaps you'll want something else instead."

Bargaining with people like this was vile, but sometimes needed, and this was a dance his bad leg did nothing to impair. He folded his arms and looked bored when the tall man made a threatening motion at him with his wand. His arms were too caught in trying to hold his hostage to really cast an effective spell. And the other Aurors and Death Eaters had stopped fighting now; a few of the Death Eaters were already melting into the shadows, as if they had what they'd come for.

"We _do_ want something else instead," Bellatrix said, and then cackled, as if the laughter were simply too pressing to restrain any longer. Rufus repressed a shudder as well as he could. "We want Potter. Where is he? Give him to us, and we'll let the poor little babies go." She patted the cheek of the student in her arms, and the cloak covering him shifted to one side, revealing bright red hair. "We'll let _all_ the poor little babies go."

"I'm sure you would," Rufus said, and smiled. "Well. As it happens, I _do_ have an idea where Potter is."

Bellatrix Lestrange surged forward, the motion quick, her eyes so wide behind the holes of her mask that they seemed to have no white. "Where?" she whispered.

"Now, now." Rufus held up one hand, one eye always on the girl the man held. Yes, there was definitely a stirring in the cloak around her that the wind couldn't account for. A motion like a hand creeping towards a wand, for example. "It's very valuable information. What assurance do I have that you'll actually give me something worth it in exchange? Put your hostages down, at your feet, and we'll talk." He could almost feel the Aurors tensing around him, though so subtly it hopefully would not show anything damning to the Death Eaters. They had pulled maneuvers like this before, where they'd cast _Mobilicorpus_ as one, and tug the hostages away from their captors. They would have done it already if Lestrange and her companion had been stupid enough to suspend Granger and Weasley floating behind them.

Bellatrix began to laugh, and did not stop. Rufus watched her with one eye, and kept one eye on the hand under the cloak in the man's arms, which seemed to have reached his wand. He was not surprised the girl wasn't fully Petrified. The man looked like one of those Death Eaters stupid enough to have used less than his full power in the spell. Bellatrix, of course, would have cast her own spell effectively.

"_Crucio!_" Bellatrix cried out suddenly. She'd moved enough that her hostage didn't impair the drawing of her wand. The Unforgivable Curse came at Rufus fast enough that he couldn't have dodged it if he wanted to.

Rufus didn't want to dodge it. He planted his bad leg and used it as a pivot, spinning the rest of his body away, though he felt the frisson as the magic of the spell brushed past him. When he turned around, he had his own wand in his hand, and he cast a simple Tripping Jinx at Bellatrix, meant to distract her more than anything else.

In the same moment, he was glad to see, Granger had torn herself free of the Death Eater holding her, taken his wand, and cast something that disabled him on the ground. Then she cast at Bellatrix while scrambling forward to grab Ron Weasley with one hand and drag him out of the fray.

The Aurors rushed at the same time.

Bellatrix kept her feet in the middle of all of it, which impressed Rufus more than anything she'd done so far. She did trip and flounder enough to lose control of the Weasley boy, but she did not look back at either him or her own companion writhing in pain on the snow. She simply ran, straight for the edge of Hogwarts and the anti-Apparition wards that prevented her from getting away, followed by the Death Eaters still standing. The Aurors followed in a pack.

Rufus didn't try to join them this time. His bad leg was near collapsing beneath him, and he had to see to Granger and Weasley. He knelt down carefully beside them just as Granger whispered, "_Finite Incantatem!_"

Weasley had a large bruise on his face, and a lump on the back of his head that might have been caused by a spell or a fall. But he was breathing, and Granger drooped over him in relief, her eyes glistening. Rufus thought she was on the verge of crying, but no tear fell.

"What happened?" Rufus asked her, hoping she could hold on just a little longer to tell the story.

Granger gulped, and did so. "We came out here," she said lowly. "We'd sent you an owl asking you to come meet us, sir, because I discovered information I didn't think should be trusted to a bird." She sniffled and tried to smile. "You'll probably find that letter waiting for you when you get home. Someone must have been—watching for us. The Death Eaters came charging us when we'd been out here for just five minutes. We retreated towards the castle and fought them for a while." She nodded towards the back of the courtyard. Rufus lifted his head and saw several dark-cloaked shapes lying on the ground there. "But in the end, they were too many for us." She leaned her head on Weasley's and said nothing for a moment, then popped open an eye. "Do you really think you have an idea where Harry is, sir?"

She looked so hopeful that Rufus hated to disappoint her, but he shook his head gently. Granger grunted and closed her eyes again.

"The important information?" he reminded her. He could hear the Aurors returning, and they didn't appear to have Bellatrix with them. And now there were lights and movement in the castle, so he didn't know how much longer they might be alone.

"Oh! Yes." Granger gave a faint smile and took out a sealed envelope from the pocket of her robe, slipping it at once into his hand. Rufus put it in his own pocket. "I discovered a spell, sir," she whispered, and her eyes slid shut again, seemingly against her will. "If someone wrote something on a piece of parchment, the spell can make a copy of those words appear on another piece of parchment that was close to the original. So you can make the contents of the last page of a book appear on the blank page at the end even if that last page is torn out. I found some of Harry's parchment, and I used the spell on it to see what he last wrote, and—" She swallowed. "It's his will, sir. And—something else. Something I think you ought to see."

Rufus had only a moment, since both the Aurors and Dumbledore's striding form were very close now, but he took that moment to squeeze her hand, hard, the way he would have one of his Aurors who had done something like this. "Thank you, Granger. You'll not regret it, I promise."

Then he stood, and moved to face Dumbledore. There could be no more hesitating, no more games over how much he would tell and how much he would not tell. Rufus was going to insist on placing Aurors around the school, not just in Hogsmeade, and strengthening the wards of Hogwarts with wards of his own.

_And I don't care how much that strikes at Dumbledore's own pride. He should have let me do it before this happened._

The light of his _Lumos_ charm at least reflected from a shocked, grave expression on Dumbledore's face. Rufus gave a little nod. It was possible that the Headmaster was just too optimistic about his own power and ability to hold back attackers, and this escapade would be the means of striking through that wall.

_I hope it is. Merlin knows I don't like fighting with him when lives are at stake._

He let his hand briefly brush past the envelope in his robe pocket, and then prepared to encounter the Headmaster.

* * *

Potter was improving by leaps and bounds; Severus did have to admit that.

He darted around Severus's inward-reaching thoughts like a shark, biting off the reaching probes hard enough to make his teacher wince. He used his own hatred to build not just impenetrable walls—which, in the middle of combat, his Occlumency shields were already supposed to be—but ones unpleasant to be around, as if they were made of bricks of rotting flesh. Severus was able to endure shorter and shorter times in his mind. All Potter's life-instinct seemed roused by the idea that he might lose his friends, and he was acting and reacting now as if he _did_ have to defend his mind, as if he _did_ have to live.

He traveled more and more easily in Severus's mind, too. He still lost, because Severus was by far the more experienced Occlumens and Legilimens, but he learned, and he could evade the traps and turn his own reaching presence into smoke, hard to identify. Severus was content with his progress.

_For now._

The real problem was getting the boy to realize what true offensive Legilimency meant, and what he'd need to do. On the third day since the Dark Lord's attack, Potter was still employing mainly defensive tactics, and ones that would have suited if his only objective was to sneak into the Dark Lord's mind. Severus decided he would speak to him about it.

"You realize," he said, when Potter was eating eagerly from a tray of sandwiches balanced on his knees, "that you will have to learn how to tear minds apart?"

Potter's shoulders stiffened at once. Severus watched closely. Since the Dark Lord's snake, the boy had sometimes shown signs of rebellion, but they always melted away, indicating a more mature understanding. Severus wondered if they would this time. He was asking Potter to do something substantially more against the boy's damn Gryffindor morals than anything he had asked so far.

_Unless he is attacking Slytherins, of course. Perhaps I should present it that way to him, and see what happens._

Potter looked up in the midst of Severus's musings and asked, "Why is that necessary, sir?" A hint of angry red tinged his cheeks, but his voice was mostly calm, and his Occlumency shields loomed behind his eyes, hiding his emotions.

"It is the only way to kill the Dark Lord with Legilimency, of course," Severus answered, and leaned forwards. "Or did you imagine that you could slip into his mind and dazzle him with your spying skills until he falls dead with beaming eyes?"

Potter swallowed, and then pushed at the tray as if it had become distasteful to him. Severus irritably wished his lecture had not had that effect. The healing potions, which he'd begun to wean the boy from, gave him an enormous appetite, and he did need to continue this high level of eating to be healthy and replace the nutrients in his body that the potions had for a few days supplied.

"I knew that," Potter whispered. "But—"

"But what?" Severus resisted the impulse to lean over and rap the edge of his head with his knuckles, but it was hard. "Speak up, boy."

Potter looked up, eyes wide and serious behind his glasses. "How am I supposed to practice before we begin on Voldemort?" he asked. "Even if I practice on you, you'll hardly let me rip your mind apart, sir. And I—" His face hardened suddenly, into the stubbornness Severus remembered from when the boy had plotted his suicide. "I don't want to be responsible for the death or pain of anyone innocent. Sir."

Severus sneered under his breath. _The boy has flexible definitions of innocent, given what he did to Draco Malfoy. In fact, now may be the time to confront him about that. _"I will make sure that your chosen victim is a Slytherin, then, Potter," he said dryly. "Since you seem to have the least qualms about hurting them, doubting them, or distrusting them, the destruction of one's mind will not seem like a loss to you."

Harry sat up indignantly. "That's not true!"

"Is it not?" Severus leaned forwards again. "And that would be why you took Draco Malfoy with the Siren Song, and why you beat him up last year at the Quidditch match, and why you have never felt anything about the pain my Slytherins have suffered. If they are of my House, they deserve it. Is that not the way you think?"

"_No!_"

"Then why act as you did towards Draco?" Severus pursued mercilessly. "I cannot imagine you taking out similar sentiments on one of your own House, or on a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. For that matter, you have acted against Slytherins passively as well, by denying them the opportunity to participate in the extra Defense Against the Dark Arts class you taught last year. Would you _rather_ leave them at the mercy of a teacher like Umbridge than give them the tools to defend themselves? Do you hate even the children who have never done anything to you so badly, Potter? I did not realize how much you were the Headmaster's disciple."

Potter narrowed his eyes. "You _know_ that Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad was full of Slytherins. We couldn't take a chance that one of them might have reported us to her."

"And all Slytherins are treacherous? Is that it?" Severus curled his lip. "I will remind you that it was not a Slytherin who betrayed you, in the end."

"We didn't have time to sort out the ones who might have been all right from the ones who were treacherous—"

Severus sat back with a low laugh. "Amazing, how few people except Slytherins have time for Slytherins."

Potter flushed and turned away from him. Severus watched him in something like contentment. If he could encourage the boy to both rethink his past assumptions and use the hatred implied by those assumptions against the Dark Lord, he would have done a good day's work.

"I just didn't think about it," Potter said at last, his voice low with distress. "I didn't mean—I _don't_ hate the whole House. That'd be stupid. But I didn't think about it. I didn't run around thinking that Slytherins were good, and I didn't run around thinking that all Slytherins were the same as Malfoy." He lifted pleading eyes. "Surely you can understand that, sir?"

"I can understand that kind of thoughtlessness and carelessness," said Severus coolly. "It is typical of you, from the way you have acted during the past five years to the way you were absolutely sure you could take the Dark Lord into your own mind and destroy him there. But it cannot be allowed to endure, Potter. You must know your own mind from top to bottom, and you must be willing to do _whatever is necessary _to defeat the Dark Lord. Those two things are connected. Otherwise, your false assumptions and lack of clarity will make you hesitate in the wrong moment, and you will not even know why you hesitate. Do you understand?"

Potter's face folded into the familiar stubborn creases, though he seemed to be struggling to repress the rebellion. Snape scratched his arm and watched with professional interest. He had sometimes seen the same expression on his Potions students' faces just before they dived into making a potion they actually succeeded at, after several botched tries.

"I don't like admitting I was wrong," Potter said shortly. "Sir."

Severus's eyebrows rose. _Impressive. At least he can admit that, which many people never can. I will throw him a bone in return. _"I can assure you that I have already chosen a victim for you to practice on, Potter," he said smoothly, "and it is no one you will object to hurting." He scratched his arm again.

"Tell me who!" Potter leaned forward, eyes glowing.

Severus shook his head. "If I did, you might focus on hurting this one person, think and dream only of that, and persuade yourself that you have no hatred again, because you would think this person deserves to be hated. I _will not let you hide._ What you are learning to do _is_ destructive, _is_ domination, _is_ mental rape. When you have used it on this victim and the Dark Lord, I will not let you hide from the fact that you have used it. You must always know it."

Potter closed his eyes and sat still for a moment, as if he were physically pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind, a habit he'd acquired over the past few days. It seemed to work, so Severus would not dispute it. He scratched his arm again.

"All right," said Potter quietly, opening his eyes and glaring even as he spoke. "I'll try to change my mind, sir, and question my assumptions. But I can't promise that it will be easy."

Severus sneered. "Nothing worthwhile is easy, Potter—"

And then the burn in his left arm he'd barely noticed exploded into his full consciousness, as the Dark Lord burned through his Occlumency barriers on the Dark Mark and attacked his mind. Severus was aware of himself staggering to one knee and crying out, and then he danced in the middle of a red-black whirlwind, fighting a maddened Legilimens he knew was stronger than himself.

* * *

Harry sat up, staring, as Snape fell to one knee. The scream escaping the man's mouth wasn't one he'd give in front of Harry.

_I have to help him._

Harry didn't really want to, with one part of himself, but another part had to admit that Snape had helped _him_, and he owed him a debt like he'd owed Sirius one. He fought his way awkwardly out of the bed, nearly fell to the floor—he still wasn't very strong—and then crawled slowly towards Snape.

Snape was staring past him with glazed eyes, and Harry knew the attack was probably mental. A glance at his left arm showed the Dark Mark flaring with dull red light from beneath his sleeve.

_I have to go into his mind and help him._

Harry swallowed bile. He'd be a stranger in Snape's mind, and he'd _have_ to use the offensive tactics Snape was trying to teach him, since he couldn't count on the defensive advantage of home ground. And he still didn't know if he could bring himself to tear anyone apart that way, even Voldemort. The rage was there, he knew; the will to use it wasn't, necessarily.

But he had to try.

He reached out, put his hands on Snape's shoulders—half-expecting the man to snap back to awareness and yell at him for that—took a deep breath, and pushed his mind at Snape's eyes.


	31. Fire and Darkness

Thanks for the reviews! Harry is indeed thinking in new ways, but the game is far from over, because he made the resolve not to let Snape control his thinking completely first.

_Chapter 31—Fire and Darkness_

Harry had to admit, as he fell head-over-heels into Snape's mind, that he hardly had a clue what he was doing. He dragged himself up with a gasp and stared around, uncertain whether he was more feeling or seeing what he encountered.

He could feel darkness churning past him like the cold, muddy water at the bottom of a pond, and sense power writhing against his senses like an eel in that same water. But he could see it, too. Perhaps. It was the same way he'd thought of Voldemort's power, when Voldemort attacked him, as a snake. He had no idea how much of it was real and how much of it was a convenient picture to make the battle easier.

But whether he was seeing it or feeling it, he could also feel Snape's raging pain, or see him screaming with an agonized expression on his face, if he chose. Voldemort's power parted the membranes of his mind quite efficiently. Harry remembered Snape saying something about his own Occlumency blocking the Dark Mark. Voldemort must have summoned enormous power to get through it.

And now that power was hurting Snape. It was like all those visions Harry had experienced of Voldemort's activities while he tried to learn his enemy's mind—

Except that, now, he had the chance to do something about it.

He hurled himself at Voldemort.

* * *

Severus hissed in exasperation, strong even through the agony, as the boy appeared in his mind. Now he had to worry about protecting Potter at the same time as he tried to summon enough Occlumency to hurt the Dark Lord.

The thought parted and drifted away from him, until he could think _Potter_ and _protection_ but not both together. What had he wanted to protect? His home? His secrets? His childhood? He couldn't tell, he didn't know, and while he knew that the difficulty in thinking came from what the Dark Lord was doing to him, he was no longer sure he could summon enough energy to care. He was retreating, falling into the depths of his consciousness. The Legilimency did not hurt so much if he did not focus directly on it, and there were corners of his mind where he could hide.

Then the Dark Lord screamed—not in pain, Severus thought, so much as indignation and rage.

He looked up. He appeared to float in darkness a short distance beneath the Dark Lord, who here took the form of a savage creature, half-dragon and half-serpent, its black wings melting into its scales, its jaws dripping not fire but poison. The creature writhed back along its coiled body, seeking to strike at something small and fast that whirled all about it.

_He will lose, _Severus thought dreamily. _Age and cunning beat youth and stupidity every time. _

But old instincts stirred him to at least reach out to the boy, even through the morass of an anguish so great that it felt as if it were tugging his limbs from his body, and remind him of the lessons he'd been trying to teach him. Merlin knew the boy didn't stand a chance unless he fought the Dark with Darkness.

* * *

Harry hated the overwhelming strength in front of him, not least because it made him afraid he'd lose the battle. He hated the way Snape had simply given up. Yes, the pain might be bad, but you didn't just _give up_ like that!

And then the reminder came in his head from Snape, tingling and sparking in a way that Harry didn't think Voldemort could have managed.

_Use your hatred._

Harry ducked another swipe of the great Legilimency in front of him, and knew he probably didn't have any choice. What little Legilimency he knew wasn't making an impact on Voldemort, and this wasn't his mind, so he couldn't use all the "unconscious defenses" that the books and Snape talked about, barriers and weapons that he'd wield by instinct. Now, of course, came a test he hadn't wanted to face.

He saw what Voldemort was doing to Snape: tearing his mind apart. He would have to do the same thing to Voldemort. He wasn't sure if he could.

But then he thought of what had happened to Cedric, and what had happened to Sirius, and even what had happened to _him_ in front of the Mirror of Erised and in the Chamber of Secrets and in the graveyard—things he usually tried not to think about—and, finally, the threat Voldemort had made against his friends.

And when the hatred began to rise, he realized that he wouldn't ever have had trouble _using_ it. What had been difficult was relaxing the morals and restrictions that, in his own mind, surrounded its use.

* * *

Light flared.

Severus opened his eyes, which had slipped shut, in shock. The pain boiled along above him, and would pounce him if he concentrated on it. Therefore, he didn't concentrate on it. He just looked up, and avoided the thought of rising to help, too, which would have increased the agony.

The scene above him had changed. The Dark Lord's power was illuminated, but this time, the light came from the raging tide of fire racing up behind Potter, who was still in human form. The flames seemed to originate from both within him and behind him, as if he were calling the strength from his own mind. Severus could feel that power, since this _was_ happening inside his thoughts, after all, and the hatred and pain and fury that boiled there took his breath away.

The boy was finally, _finally_ doing what Severus had told him to do.

Yet, as the flames struck into the darkness and began, by sheer force, to melt the Dark Lord's Legilimency, Severus was not sure it would be enough. After all, the Dark Lord knew hatred, too, and he had so much more experience than the boy did. Potter, with his wild and uncoordinated strikes, was doing some damage, but without a battle plan, he might inflict a few wounds only to die.

Then Severus sat up.

Because there _was_ a difference between them, something subtle that Severus didn't think he would have felt if he'd merely encountered their Legilimency side-by-side, but which showed up to advantage in battle. They moved in different ways. Potter struck harder. He chose the slightest opening and charged it, without thinking of the cost to himself.

The Dark Lord hesitated, held back, recoiled when a moment of accepting the pain might have enabled him to inflict a harsher blow.

He was _afraid._

Perhaps just afraid of the boy who had resisted him too many times before, Severus thought, almost interested enough to forget about his own wide-torn wounds while Potter drove the Dark Lord in circles. But it went beyond even that. It seemed like a hesitancy in committing his full strength to the battle.

That made no sense to Severus, who had seen the Dark Lord in full pursuit of everything from killing a Muggle to defying Dumbledore, so he once again looked closer. The fire spread overhead like an arch of gold and red and orange—the colors of phoenix fire. Flames lashed around the Dark Lord and began to melt his scales. Other surges of color clasped his head and tried to char it away. His wings were nothing more than a delicate web of ash on bones made fragile by heat.

_There _it was, and this time, Severus, consulting with his subconscious that saw things in more detail than his conscious mind could, thought he understood.

The Dark Lord was afraid to die. Potter was not.

Potter thought only of hurting his enemy, not of emerging from the contest alive. The Dark Lord had his coveted immortality to retain, and he had endured too much for the sake of that to give his all to any one battle—even if that battle would have destroyed the enemy who most threatened him.

If he were cornered in his own mind, it might have made a difference. But he was not. He was in a precarious situation he had entered of his own free will, and he had the choice to flee.

Before that, he _did_ try to hurt Potter, turning around and, in Severus's vision, clamping his jaws over the boy's head.

Potter went mad.

* * *

Harry was already swimming in a sea of emotions, the hatred bearing him up from beneath, the fury striking over his head to hurt Voldemort. He breathed hard, trying to _ride_ them—not precisely to control them, but to use them, instead of letting them use him.

And then Voldemort did something that hurt a thousand times more than anything he'd done so far. Harry could feel his bones turning molten inside him with the pain. He screamed, and the memories he'd summoned to help him fight Voldemort went spinning out of him, streaming down into the depths of Snape's mind to land who-knew-where.

Voldemort roared in triumph, and spoke some taunt Harry couldn't quite make out, though it featured Ron and Hermione's names prominently.

And he lost it.

He flew at Voldemort, not caring what happened to him, only wanting to _hurt_, to _tear_, to _rend._ What he did wasn't in any of the books he'd read. None of those delicate Legilimency techniques, with their separate names and consequences and movements of the mind and images, came to him now. He simply snatched up the desire to cause pain and torture, and tossed it straight at Voldemort.

Voldemort screamed in return, and the sound was like a bath of cool water. Harry had never known that hurting another Legilimens could make him feel better, as well as soothing his outrage. He did it again and again and again, this time focusing on tearing loose strips of the immense power in front of him and swallowing it. If Voldemort was going to bleed, Harry wanted to fasten his mouth to the wounds and suck the blood, or laugh as he slit his throat.

He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't care. He just wanted to do more and more of it.

Alien memories whirled past him, jagged and cold-edged, as if he were consuming flakes of ice. He could feel Voldemort wrenching, trying to get away, and he clung closer, striking deep, striking to wound, striking to pain. Maybe he could kill Voldemort now—though he didn't think so—but why should he try? He was having too much fun causing pain.

He heard someone laughing. Maybe it was him. Harry hadn't known he could laugh like that.

Voldemort tried to get away from him again. Harry wasn't inclined to permit that yet.

* * *

As the Dark Lord's tender attentions to him lessened and he began to recover from the pain, Severus could see what the boy was doing, and his heart turned to stone within him.

_He will be borne along and back into the Dark Lord's mind when he vanishes. Idiot!_

But Potter did not seem to intend letting go any time soon. He was, in fact, _swallowing_ the memories and thoughts and Legilimency he could tear loose. That was a sophisticated technique not included in the books Severus had lent him, and the boy had probably hit on it with instinct, luck, and his usual tendency to get as hurt as possible without dying.

If he went into the Dark Lord's mind, though, he _would_ die. There was no doubt about that.

And Severus was not inclined to see all his hard work come to nothing.

Up he struck, a thin whip of power that coiled in between the boy and the Dark Lord, finding the places where Potter's fire surrounded the serpent-dragon in a close embrace and injecting a layer of ice. Potter fell back in sheer surprise. The Dark Lord waited only a moment, until he was free enough of the contact that he did not risk taking Potter with him, and then folded himself up into a small square and vanished with remarkable swiftness.

And now, of course, the only problem was that Potter was turning all his fury and hatred on Severus.

Severus stood firm, and calm, and quiet. He had been in this situation a few times before, most notably when the Dark Lord had failed in some goal, such as breaking a stubborn prisoner before he died, and had wanted a target. His own abilities had protected him then, and they would now. If worse came to worse, he could shove the boy violently out of his mind and back into his own.

But more than that, he wanted to show Potter that there were appropriate times to use this power, and appropriate times not to use it. He would be useless, even Dark—_especially_ Dark—if he could not retain control.

"Here I am, then," he said, and spread his arms, and exaggerated the lurid light of the wounds all around him. "Do you wish to hurt me more than I have been hurt?"

* * *

Harry heard the question distantly. His entire being quivered like a gong. He had his own emotions ringing around him, of course, and now he had Voldemort's memories, and Snape's pain, and the urge to go on destroying and killing and rending without paying attention to what he destroyed and killed and rent. It was too much to be controlled. Wasn't it?

_You know it is not, _a voice said to him that might have been Snape's, or maybe just his own, the same clear voice that had guided him through his plans towards the ultimate end of suicide and encouraged him to write down the questions he had about Snape's motives in the back of his mind. _You know you must master this, or you will end up killing someone whom you owe a debt to. _

And he did, Harry thought, with crystalline misery, seeing it all the more clearly because he wasn't in his own mind and had only a shadow of his usual preoccupations to contend with. He _did_ owe a debt. Snape had saved his life. He was trying to teach Harry to use the weapons he thought Harry would need in this battle. He didn't _need_ to, because he probably could have run somewhere and left the war behind entirely, and of course no one would have blamed him—Harry included—for letting Harry die of the Medea's Draught. But he'd remained.

_Damn it._

Harry bridled his hatred again, reluctantly. It felt good enough when it was let loose that he didn't want to put it back again. But, of course, that was probably one of the reasons he'd been equally reluctant to let it go in the first place. He feared hurting others.

But he would have to hurt them, Voldemort and at least one other person, the one Snape wanted him to practice on.

_So how will I know when I've gone too far?_

_When you think something is needless, _said that clear voice of—conscience? Experience? Harry didn't know. He didn't think anyone had ever taught him what it was. _Refrain from inflicting pain that is needless._

Harry decided he could live with that, and pulled himself back into his body, opening his eyes gingerly. His mind felt tossed-about, upended, and it took him long moments to realize that Snape lay on the floor, either senseless or pretending very hard.

Harry didn't think he could get Snape into bed by himself. Besides, he didn't know where the man slept. He hadn't been beyond this bedroom and the loo in his entire time at this house. He called out softly, "Help? Is anyone else here?"

A house-elf appeared with a crack that made Harry jump. It squealed when its eyes fell on Snape, and Harry felt compelled to reassure the creature. "He isn't dead, just hurt. Can you move him to his bed and keep him warm and—" Harry had no idea what else he should do for someone who'd been the victim of offensive Legilimency. "Help him?" he finished weakly.

"I is doing that!" the house-elf proclaimed lustily, and snatched up Snape, and vanished. Harry let out a breath of relief, and then carefully forced himself to his feet and staggered back to his own bed.

The moment he moved, his head began to pound like a drum. Harry had intended to remain awake for some time and consider what he'd done and the likely consequences of it, but he _couldn't._ Darkness rushed down on him like a whirlwind, and between one breath and the next, took him away from himself.

Inside that one breath, he was glad. He had learned a number of things about himself all at once this evening, and none of them were pleasant.


	32. The Turn of the Tide

Thank again for the reviews! Glad the battle scene worked out; one of the numerous problems with mental battle scenes is making them comprehensible, since I can't use exact physical analogues.

_Chapter 32—The Turn of the Tide_

Rufus was exhausted. He'd spent most of the last few days Apparating back and forth between the Ministry and Hogwarts, meeting with the Wizengamot to discuss new laws they hoped would halt the Death Eaters, trying to stop some of the more insane ideas, and meeting with Dumbledore to discus what else they could do to strengthen the school's defenses. They'd already settled the cover story that Potter had gone away to be trained for the final battle in the war and that Severus Snape's disappearance had been an ordinary one; that was made easier because Dumbledore had already managed to hire someone, a professor named Slughorn, to fill both the position of Potions master and the vacancy as Slytherin Head of House.

Now his leg ached furiously, and he really _did_ want just to go to bed. But he still hadn't read the contents of the envelope that Granger had given him. They were in a safe place, a blood-locked drawer in the table at the side of his bed that only he could open, but they might have important information in them.

The contents of the will made him frown and chuckle in equal measure. It proved Potter had been utterly serious about committing suicide, which made Rufus worry for his future performance in the war, but it _was_ amusing to see that he thought his Potions professor worth only a Knut.

Then he read the second parchment enclosed in the envelope.

When he was done, he leaned his head against the wall next to his bed and tried to think. He _might_ have what he thought in his hand, but it was too likely that he didn't, and that his aching, confused head meant he should _sleep_, instead of mindlessly assuming this list would make Dumbledore cooperate more readily with him.

It was the list of abuses that Harry Potter had suffered at the hands of his Muggle guardians—abuses the boy seemed strictly accurate at recalling, without histrionics, and hadn't stated with the thought that anyone else but said Muggles would ever see them. Thus, he probably wouldn't have exaggerated, either.

Rufus thought he held part of an answer as to why the boy had been so willing to die.

And since Dumbledore was the one who had placed him with those guardians, this list at least cast a dubious light on that decision. At worst, it made the Headmaster look like a passive partner in the abuse.

It might give him some kind of leverage over Dumbledore, Rufus thought, after thinking over it for several minutes, and from all angles. But the boy was already free of the Headmaster's control, and, for now, Dumbledore wasn't putting useless obstructions in the Ministry's way just because he could. The list could go back into the drawer.

But it might not always stay there.

* * *

Severus awoke slowly, his hand rising at once to his head. It hurt, but less than he expected. Of course, he felt the faint sweet taste of a potion for headaches on his lips, and knew the cause of that.

_Potter is competent enough in potions to think to give me that?_ he thought, sitting up.

But the mystery was solved a moment later when his house-elf appeared beside him with a squeal and a tray of more potions, mostly simple pain draughts. "Master Snape is being better? I is glad! Master Snape needs to drink—"

"Yes, yes," Severus snapped, and waved towards the chair next to his bed. "Leave it there, _if_ you would be so good." He was more interested in information. "Tell me how the Potter boy does."

"Master Harry sleeps, sir," the house-elf said, obeying him quickly and efficiently. Severus gave a reluctant nod. That was one advantage they had over purely human servants, at least, though Severus would not trust them to help him with brewing potions; they were too likely to do what they thought their master wanted rather than what the instructions called for. "He been sleeping since yesterday, and not woken up once." The elf beamed at him. "Of course, Master Snape not wake up until just now, either!"

"And you put him to bed?" Severus asked. The last thing he could remember was Potter blazing out of his mind like a dragon in flight, at which point the pain had cut through the tent of calm he'd managed to establish in the middle of it and felled him.

"Master Harry put himself to bed," the house-elf answered promptly. "I is helping Master Snape, the way Master Harry said to!"

Severus was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Bring me toast, poached eggs, and a cup of tea."

The house-elf clapped its hands in ecstasy to be of service, and vanished. Severus leaned back against the pillows and began to consider matters very carefully.

He had promised himself, before, that he would never underestimate Potter again. That had not worked out so well, but, this time, even graver consequences might ride on him keeping that vow.

_Why did Potter help me? _

Severus doubted it was to win credit with him when he woke. The boy couldn't have known the house-elf would tell him the truth, or even that Severus would ask about it. And he also did not think on the same lines that Severus did, about how best to treat one who might become a comrade. As far as Severus could see in the boy's mind, Potter was still absolutely convinced that he would face and fight the Dark Lord alone. The prophecy Albus had handed to him as if it were a puppy might have something to do with that.

That left native compassion, or the boy's unending desire to help people. It seemed that Severus had stepped out of the category of active hostility in his mind, and his help during Potter's battle might have had something to do with that.

_The boy is no longer what he was. Not even what he was two weeks ago, when I first stopped him from sacrificing his life. _

Severus thoughtfully sipped his tea when his food came, and reviewed the conclusions carefully in his mind. He wanted to understand all of them, to know what Potter was thinking and what he was not, what he had learned and what insights he had still to come to.

_If we are to help each other, if we are to be allies and not just stubborn master and slow student, this is essential._

* * *

Harry woke slowly, and in such pain that he didn't want to move. He clenched his hands into the pillow beneath him. Then he clenched his teeth against a moan. The house-elf might be nearby—Harry thought he had broken memories of it moving fussily around him—and he didn't want to alert or alarm it.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Potter."

That voice made Harry turn over quickly. He paid for it as redness surged across his vision, and he groaned and fought hard to keep from vomiting. Just as he thought he'd succeeded, he felt the edge of a potions vial against his lips.

"Swallow, Potter," Snape's harsh tones said, and his hand massaged Harry's throat roughly, but without adding to the pain. "I do not wish any decoration added to my carpets and your sheets."

Harry swallowed, mostly in shock; it was the closest he'd ever heard Snape come to a joke. Almost at once, the pain in his head dwindled to a small white point, and then faded away altogether, seeming to duck behind one temple. Harry raised a shaking hand and touched his scar, but even that wasn't inflamed. He sat up and gave a short nod at Snape. "Thank you, sir," he said.

Snape moved to take the chair across from him, the place where he so often sat while Harry read or ate or practiced his Legilimency. This time, though, he didn't seem intent on tossing a book at Harry and leaving him be. His eyes were sharp enough that Harry instinctively tightened his shields.

"Sir?" he asked.

"I think it time to speak _exactly_ about what you have learned, and what you intend to do with it," Snape said softly.

Harry, on the verge of crossing his arms and being sarcastic, paused at the tone. Snape was speaking to him like—well, like no one had ever spoken to him before, Harry thought. The closest he remembered coming were his conversations with McGonagall and Dumbledore last year, about becoming an Auror and about the prophecy.

_He's talking to me as if I were an adult and could understand what he said._

Harry carefully pushed his glasses, which by a miracle still clung to his face and weren't broken, up his nose. "Does this question just apply to Legilimency, sir?" he asked. "Or to everything?"

Something in Snape's face relaxed. _Maybe he was expecting me to be sarcastic, and he's just as relieved I'm not. _"Everything," he said. "Though mostly to Legilimency. I wish to know what you learned from your battle with the Dark Lord, Mr. Potter."

Harry forced himself to think about that, instead of snapping back cockily that he'd learned he could hurt Voldemort. Finally, he said, "I learned that I _can_ make him afraid. I can endure the kind of pain he inflicts on me to go after him. He's a skilled Legilimens, but he's not invulnerable." He hesitated, almost afraid of saying the next words. They might shatter the careful, razor-edged honesty between himself and Snape. But he thought he had to say them. _If he doesn't intend to help me, it's better I know now. _"I learned that I can trust you to help me for certain, sir."

Snape's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing for a long moment. Harry, with no idea if that was good or not, held his breath.

* * *

_He has learned._

That had been one of the lessons Severus had hoped Potter had taken in, but didn't intend to suggest to the boy himself. He had to acknowledge it on his own, or he would assume Severus was merely interfering. And now he had.

And he did not know if he had made a mistake or not, Severus realized, as he watched the wide green eyes examining him. The boy even appeared to be holding his breath, as ridiculous as that was.

"I _am_ impressed, Potter," he said, and though his voice drawled, he did not put any of his sarcasm into it. Let Potter take the compliment as seriously as he would, or not seriously at all. "I did not know if you would ever learn to trust me."

Potter gave his chin a slight jerk, as if he were raising his head to yell and then thought better of it. "I don't trust you with everything," he said lowly. "But I trust you to help me in the battle with Voldemort."

"You finally realize this is my battle, too?" Severus pressed.

"Yes, sir."

Severus nodded. "Then you will understand me when I say that I wish to help you, both with your practice victim and with the Dark Lord."

As he'd expected, Potter stiffened at that. At least he took a moment to consider instead of snapping immediately that the battle was his own. "But, sir," he said, "as far as I know, I'm the only one who can actually _defeat_ him."

"That is assuredly not true for the victim I have chosen for you," Severus pointed out calmly. "And I do not think it true for the Dark Lord, either. Why did you assume you have to face him alone?"

Potter frowned, and unconsciously touched the scar on his forehead before replying. Severus thought that answer an even stronger one than the one he actually gave. Potter was too used to being singled out, assuming he was the sole hero. Often that led to his arrogance, but it had also made it easy for him to slip into isolation and assume that no one could help him even if he asked. "The prophecy—it's pretty clear, sir. If I don't kill him, he kills me."

"That does not mean that others cannot aid you," Severus murmured. "Perhaps I cannot strike the final blow, but I can aid you in your flight into his mind, Mr. Potter, even as I aided you when he tried to crush yours."

Potter swallowed. "The same way I helped you yesterday, sir?"

_Ah._ Severus had wondered with even more curiosity how the brat would approach this part of what he'd done. He could easily have been smugly triumphant, claiming that Severus owed him a life debt, and that would have caused another breach between them, since Severus did not intend to tolerate the boy's ego any longer. But, no, he had approached it as cautiously as he had the rest of the conversation. Severus approved. Honesty between them would always require caution.

"Yes," he said, and held Potter's eyes, making it clear that was the only thing he would say about it. Potter nodded, the relief in his own eyes bright. _Good. We are in agreement as to the desirability of speaking about that, then. _"We are to be allies in this, Potter. I will accept nothing less."

"What does being allies require, sir?"

Severus surprised himself with a smirk. _He has learned in this, too. He will no longer plunge into it blindly like a Gryffindor, nor reject being allies with me simply because it is me. _"It requires that you listen to me," he said. "That you practice diligently what I give you, so I am not wasting my time. That you acknowledge when something is beyond your ability as yet, and ask for help. That you come to my aid when I require it, and trust—" Potter's eyebrows had risen at the word "—me to come to yours when you need it. That we both dedicate every ounce of our effort to the Dark Lord's destruction. I know that you were not often holding back when you studied with me, but sometimes you did, as when you refused to even entertain the notion that you were capable of ripping apart a mind. I hope you are past that now."

Potter stared at the floor for a moment. "I did that to _him_," he said, voice barely audible. "I'm capable of it, sir. I know that. I just don't like it."

Severus leaned forward. _There is a limit to what he has learned, then. Best to nip this in the bud. _"Ripping apart another's mind is a tool in this war," he said. "It is nothing else."

"It's still part of right and wrong," Potter said, looking up at him.

"If we debated every part of what is right and wrong when fighting the Dark Lord," Severus replied smoothly, "then you would defeat him only when you were as old as Dumbledore. You forget, Potter. I saw what you did yesterday. You _can_ restrict yourself from harming everything in sight. I asked you to stop, and you did. That means that you are capable of wielding this tool. And it is _only a tool. _It does not transform you when you pick it up. The effects and consequences of what you do are more important than what you wield."

Potter's face took on a thoughtful expression. Severus remained still. He thought he had done as much pushing and offering as he could for right now—and as much as he wished to—and now it was up to Potter to reach back, to exercise the brain that pressure had forced him to use.

* * *

Harry was wrestling again.

On the one hand, what Snape said was right. He _had_ managed to stop from hurting Snape yesterday, even afire with rage and hatred. That was important. And he could use Legilimency against Voldemort, and he was good at it, unexpectedly, so he should keep on using it. And he had to save the world from Voldemort, with Snape's help or without it, so refusing a weapon that he needed was stupid.

On the other hand, how far could he go before he lost himself to corruption? What Snape said was persuasive, but was Harry only believing him because he wanted to? Snape had called this kind of Legilimency mental rape. Should Harry rape _anyone_, no matter who it was?

The answer to that question was _no_, of course. But on the first hand again, he had already committed himself to inflicting any amount of pain on Voldemort and himself necessary to end the war.

Harry raised his eyes again. "Can I ask you something, sir?" he said, and waited until Snape nodded. "What happens after I've killed Voldemort? I mean—" He hesitated, groping for words. "Is Legilimency like Quidditch?"

Snape's face clouded with incredulity and amusement, and probably a bit of irritation. "Is Legilimency like Quidditch?" he repeated—just to underscore the stupidity of the question, Harry thought.

"I mean—" Harry made a vague gesture with one hand, and finally managed to wrestle his words into line. "I can stop playing Quidditch when I want to, sir. I just don't climb on a broom. Is Legilimency like that? Can I stop using it? Or does it addict you?" He'd heard the Dark Arts were addictive, though he had to admit he didn't know very much about them.

"Ah." Snape's face relaxed. "The answer to that question is both yes and no, Potter. Using Legilimency does not _compel_ you to keep using it, but I am afraid you must keep up your study when you have faced down the Dark Lord, yes. It cannot be confined to one part of your life and shut away, like Quidditch." He spoke the name with audible distaste. "Otherwise, it will escape your control, and you are likely to find yourself using the raw material of Legilimency, the reaching out and the attempts to read others' minds, without the focused techniques to contain it."

Harry frowned. "Why, sir?"

"Because Legilimency is much more a method of relating to the world around you than Quidditch is, of course," Snape answered, raising his eyebrows as if he were surprised Harry needed this instruction. "You know others' minds. You become used to using their thoughts, memories, and emotions to tell you what they're about, much as you rely on body language. It will happen without your notice, and thus stands a chance of completely unintended mental dominance." He sneered a little at Harry's open dismay. "There are _reasons_ that Legilimency is restricted by the Ministry, Potter. This is yet another of them. It is a process of mental discipline, and it will continue for the rest of your life. Once you become a Legilimens, you will remain that way. Dumbledore and I have remained that way for years, you will notice, even during the decade when we had few people to test our skills on but students."

"But I can control it?"

"If you study."

Harry exhaled noisily and studied his hands. He'd still hoped that, once he killed Voldemort, he could go back to what he'd been, and that would be it. The next best option once he'd decided that he had to live was just being what he'd been again, and leaving these last six months behind.

_But that won't work, _his clear voice pointed out calmly, _and now you know it won't. So you have to live with it. _

"All right, sir," he said, looking up. "I'll accept your offer of alliance." He grimaced and put a hand on his stomach as it began to cramp. "Can I have something to eat?"

Snape tilted his head, and rose from the chair, probably to call the house-elf, Harry thought. Harry lay back on his pillows and tried to breathe normally.

He felt—odd. Heavy in the head, as though all the thinking he'd done had settled there like an accumulated weight. Clear, as though he'd shed false hopes and could see the truth. Wary, since he wasn't stupid enough to trust Snape with _everything_, and never would be.

But _odd_. And different.

Harry wondered idly if this was what people meant by growing up.

_Probably not._


	33. Changeability

Thanks again for the reviews! And yes, Harry kind of trusts Snape right now; the situation might still improve.

_Chapter 33—Changeability_

"I don't think I can do this, sir—" Harry heard his own voice high and strained, as though it came from the mouth of a stranger. His hands scrabbled across his blankets, and his brow ran with so much sweat that he thought he could feel his scar inflaming the way it did when he'd had his visions.

"You can." Snape's voice was only a little less strained, but he didn't move, even to take his eyes from Harry's. "I will never let you rest on your laurels again, now that I know what you can do. _Push_, Potter!"

Harry flung himself at Snape's shields again. This time, Snape was pouring a considerable part of his Occlumency into them, and he wondered how in the world Voldemort could have had the anger and determination to keep burning through them when he'd encountered them in the Dark Mark. These were _strong_. No, they were worse than that. They were like walls of dark stone, mocking the very attempt to break through or conquer them. He should just lie down and collapse at the foot of them.

He knew that was another of Snape's defenses, but, damn it, it was an effective one. And Harry was supposed to try and cut through those shields, so that he could come at Snape's unprotected mind beyond? Fuck _that_.

"You are not trying, Potter!"

"I am too!" Harry leaned forward, at once seeing more of the firelight gleaming in Snape's eyes and the walls curving above him, smooth and dark. He pushed again, and again his Legilimency rebounded; one of the nastier things Snape had learned to do was turn an opponent's strength against himself like that. "Sometimes I just can't do it! I'm trying as hard as I can!"

"Not compared to how hard you will need to try to defeat the Dark Lord." Snape's voice was more composed, a sign that he was putting forth less effort now. Harry gritted his teeth, and flung himself straight ahead. That made his head ache abominably, and the next moment, he was inside his own mind again. Snape raised an eyebrow. "And what did I tell you about striking without thinking?"

"This isn't _easy_," Harry complained, and leaned back against his pillows. Every muscle in his legs shook. And the headache that seemed to have never completely left him since the night Voldemort had attacked Snape now clenched around his temples like a crown of iron. He groaned and raised a shaky hand to stroke at his hair, then grimaced when he felt how slick with sweat it was.

"I never said it was," Snape said. "But it is within your abilities. You are a natural Legilimens, Potter. I was not wrong about that." Harry didn't have to open his eyes to see Snape's smug smile, since it seemed caught permanently on the inside of his eyelids. "If I did not think you could do this, I would not have wasted my time with trying to train you."

Harry snapped one eye open and stared at him. "You mean that?" It was the closest thing Snape had offered him to a compliment since this began.

Snape nodded, and if he was lying, Harry at least couldn't tell. "Yes. You must fight the Dark Lord with Legilimency, and you _can_. It will be harder than anything you have done in your life, but after what you have endured in the years before this, what did you think it would be?"

Harry closed his eyes again and contemplated that for a moment. Yes, it was hard, but Snape wasn't deriding him—well, at least he wasn't deriding him as _badly_ as he had done in the detentions, or when Harry tried to brew potions or study Occlumency. Snape believed him capable of doing better, and just wanted to push him.

So he would do better.

Harry swallowed through a dry throat, and forced his eyes open. "All right. Can we continue?"

"Rest, and drink this first," Snape said, tossing him a small vial of bright purple liquid. Harry was surprised to recognize the headache potion, which he hadn't had since the night after they came to their agreement. Snape said he needed to learn how to concentrate through his pain. "There are times when pain becomes more a distraction than a goad," Snape added, when Harry looked at him.

Harry nodded and swallowed the potion. Surprisingly, the headache vanished at once, and then it seemed only natural to rest a bit. Snape wouldn't let him fall asleep, he knew.

* * *

Severus watched as Potter drifted off, and smothered his own smile, just in case the boy's eyes should happen to flutter open one last time. He had not studied potions enough to know that headache and sleeping potions could be combined, and often were. In this case, Severus had created a mixture that should keep the boy asleep for two or three hours.

Severus needed the rest, and so did he.

Severus took his own, milder potion a moment later, and massaged his forehead. The constant trial of matching their Legilimency did hurt, though he had not gone through as much pain as Potter had. The tight, pinched features of Potter's face sometimes worried, but more often reassured, him. They were making progress with their training. A week ago, a month ago, Potter would have started whinging from the agony. Now he could endure it, and decide that some things were more important than the petty twinges in his head, or his petty morals. It was a progress that Severus had once despaired of making.

The boy still put too much effort into directly attacking, of course. What he _needed_ to do was combine his defensive thinking with his offensive, and probe any crack in Severus's defense that he could catch at the same moment as he continued the frontal assault. Severus had felt a few such cracks sprout as Potter attacked him; it was impossible not to have them, given the sheer strength Potter could muster. But they could not matter if Potter would not take advantage of them.

Severus could think of two causes for that. First, Potter was still too much a Gryffindor, and wanted to see Severus's shields fall before he sprang past them. He would have to learn to take something small and pry it open into something large—coming in by a tunnel, rather than opening the main gates.

Second, the boy was still instinctively reluctant to hurt his teacher.

Severus firmed his lips. _I believe I can help him past that._

* * *

Harry growled under his breath. He'd been on edge all day, and Snape hadn't made it better. The man had contrived to stir "casual" remarks about his friends and Harry's lack of progress into every conversation they had, and had once or twice asked, with mock concern, if Harry had actually _read_ the books he'd lent him.

"You know I did, sir," Harry said to that. The last word stuck in his throat. If Snape wanted to be allies, why wasn't he acting like an ally?

"And yet, you still continue to hurl your strength at me, instead of using the tactics the books showed you," Snape mused. "Rather as you could have read the instructions for the potion I wanted you to brew and still ended up with a cooling mess." His eyes glittered as they rested on Harry. "Of course, perhaps that is because we did not brew poisons then."

Harry gritted his teeth and ignored that. Yes, he had to use hatred and rage in Legilimency. That didn't mean he was about to take up the trade of brewing poisons, the way Snape wanted. Yes, he _could_ do that. He still wouldn't.

Currently, he slipped along the smooth frontal surface of Snape's shields, looking for the cracks the books talked about, while Snape tried to shove him out at the same time. And spoke, of course, just to show how little Harry's attempts concerned him.

"If you wish to defeat the Dark Lord, Potter, you will have to get used to a considerably fouler mind than you have so far. My choice of victim depends on that." He paused. "Unfortunately, perhaps we will never have that opportunity, given how hard it is for you to work in such an environment as _this._"

_Ignore him, _Harry told himself, _ignore him. This is another defense, like the walls. Voldemort will be telling you you're worthless, too, and probably whoever he has in mind for you to attack. You have to ignore it, and—_

"I wish Black were still alive," Snape remarked. "You might have found the required mind in his skull, though he was no Occlumens, and so you would simply have torn through his thoughts on your first attempt." There was a long pause in which Harry thought their breathing was the loudest sound. "A pity."

Harry called his hatred again, the way he had when he attacked Voldemort, but this time, it felt different. Rather than fire, the rage that he already knew would drive him tirelessly forward but which wouldn't work on Snape, this was cold. It surrounded him like the ink cast forth from an octopus, and Harry swam forward in the middle of it, aiming at a tiny part of the shields.

It didn't matter if there was no crack here. He would _make_ one. He concentrated, prying with his hatred, filling his mind with images of hooked nets and barbs that would tear apart the rock in front of him. It was not so different from flesh. Shape it, and he would make it so, at least in his mind. The books had said that, too. _Do not fall into the trap of assuming the same things your victim does about his mind, or you aid his defenses and weaken yourself._

Harry had thought of Snape's shields as impenetrable long enough, because _Snape_ had thought of them that way. Now he would go through the crack—

And there it was. Harry knew he had willed it to appear, because Snape was pressing down furiously, with mocking memories of Sirius, with the conviction that he was worthless and could never do this, and with the aura of intimidation and fear that generally surrounded his shields, trying to stop him. But Harry didn't pay any attention to that right now.

He tore open the crack with the hooks, and then passed on into the less shielded meat of Snape's mind.

* * *

_Well. That made him angry enough._

It was not pleasant, of course, to feel an immense creature of rage and hatred sliding through his mind, darkening his thoughts. Severus had not been easy on the boy in anything other than the manner of his taunting. He really had tried to prevent Potter from breaking through his shields, but the boy had ignored him easily this time, and managed to slide through.

Severus now tried to catch him and throw him out. He knew Potter _could_ dodge this, but he probably would not think—

And then, abruptly, Potter twisted, and his assault turned as thin and invisible as smoke, one of the defensive Legilimency techniques he'd mastered before the Dark Lord's visit. Severus reached for him again, but he slipped through his grip, and then he summoned the memory that he'd seen in the Pensieve last year, effortlessly.

Severus hissed and twisted, whipping his mind out of the trap Potter was preparing: to catch him with strong emotions and make him care more about the memory than the enemy Legilimens in his head. He dropped low and then came up underneath Potter, calling on another of his defenses.

* * *

Harry blinked as the walls of a labyrinth sprang into being around him. The books he'd read hadn't mentioned this as a defensive technique, or told him what he needed to do to counter it.

He paused to consider, and the walls grew thicker. Harry gave a grim nod. So, the one thing he _couldn't_ do was hold still.

He made straight for an isolated place on the wall nearest him, and pried a crack in it as he had in Snape's outer shields. And then he was through, twisting deeper, passing flashes of faces in memory and snags of anger and tangles of loathing, and dropping into a tunnel that led to something important and guarded.

Snape slammed the tunnel shut after him. Harry wasn't worried. He knew, from the books, that if he could cause Snape enough pain, the tunnel would have to open again, and he could find his way back out.

It was amazing, he thought dimly, whirling the hooks around his head and landing them in the tender flesh of Snape's memories, how much his perspective had changed the moment he summoned the cold hatred. It was no longer about avoiding pain and constantly comparing Snape's mind to Voldemort's in his head. It was about _hurting_ him. Snape had been trying to make him do that all along, and Harry hadn't understood. Now he did. He couldn't always rely on the first flush of rage to carry him through his battles. He had to be able to inflict pain in cold blood, too.

He could, now. He had never been colder. He paused for a moment, just to give himself a chance to back out or Snape a chance to catch him, and then he yanked with all his might on the part of Snape's mind where the hooks were embedded.

* * *

Severus screamed in pain. The boy _had_ read about Merlin's Hooks, then, and he was using them now. By all the wizards that were and had been, this _hurt_. It was like having one's fingers bent backwards and broken, only inside the head. He knew he stood a chance of sustaining permanent damage if he didn't remove Potter as soon as possible.

And he knew how.

He reached out, his hands clumsy with agony, and shoved hard at Potter. The boy wavered against his pillows, and then his body slumped over, breaking their eye contact and shattering the foundation of Potter's Legilimency.

* * *

Harry felt a force ripping him wildly from Snape's head, though he didn't know how, and he drew the hooks back into himself instinctively. He wouldn't mind tattering his enemy's memories, but he didn't want to leave pieces of himself behind. The books had advised against that, too: let your enemy know you too well, and he would actually weave your own memories and emotions into his defenses.

He found himself back in his head, on the pillows, so slick with sweat that he stank. But he had no headache now. He forced his eyes open slowly, to see Snape's face pale and his hand shaking as he reached for a vial of purple potion on the table next to him. The vial slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor with a small sound. Snape cursed, though low enough under his breath that Harry could only tell it was fervent, not what the words were.

He slipped quietly out of bed and walked towards Snape, intercepting his hand as he started to reach for another headache potion. Snape looked up at him, eyes narrowed as though squinting into the sun, no doubt wondering if Harry would prevent him from easing the pain at all. He was proud enough to endure it if he had to, Harry knew, rather than make effort after effort that would only reveal his own weakness.

Never looking away from him, Harry fetched another vial, uncorked it, and held it to his lips until Snape swallowed. That took a long moment, as though Snape imagined he could somehow have poisoned it in the seconds since he picked it up. Then Harry laid the empty vial on the table and stepped away, never breaking his gaze from his teacher's.

"Why?" Snape asked at last.

"Because we're allies," said Harry. His voice was distorted, a hollow echo, without its usual strength or warmth. He thought that probably had something to do with the cold void filling his own head. He shook his head, and some of his thoughts returned to normal. "Because I need you strong if I'm going to learn to fight strength. And because you healed me, even when I was in pain because of what you did."

Snape inclined his head just a touch. Then he said, "You realize that luck played a large part in what you did. I underestimated you. Again." There was bitterness in his voice on the words, which Harry took for bitterness over looking like a fool; Snape never could bear that. "The Dark Lord will not. And we will have to arrange protection for your body at the same time, so our victim cannot disperse your Legilimency as easily."

"I know," said Harry. "So, we need to do it again, and once I have it perfect, we need to work on other techniques."

Snape studied him minutely. Then he said, "Yes. That is true."

And they had turned another corner, Harry thought, something that could have resulted in much more hatred after he'd hurt Snape so badly. He gave Snape a small smile. "When will you be in shape to begin again?"

* * *

Taunting Potter and encouraging him to use his utmost effort had been the right course, Severus decided after that. He did not use the open taunts again, but he did use the overwhelming feeling of worthlessness that was already one of the natural defenses of his mind, and which the Dark Lord himself would certainly use, given his contempt for everyone who was not himself.

Potter always responded, using Merlin's Hooks, the Smoke Like, the Pearl-Handled Scissors, and his own rage and hatred to cut, sheer, rip, tear, and make Severus relive the worst moments of his life. The boy was silent and intent most of the time, only asking questions about Severus's health or about what he should do when one of his techniques failed. And he grew better and better over the next week-and-a-half.

At the end of that time, Severus was not sure he could say that he trusted Potter fully, but it was something like that. Perhaps it was simply seeing his reflection in a mirror. They had moved closer and closer together in likeness of mind, and Severus had no doubt they would be able to act as partners on the victim he had chosen.

He revealed that victim to Potter on a morning when the boy had asked him, seriously, how much he could learn in the future when practicing on a mind he already knew so well.

"I need another Occlumens," he said, his face decorated with a pensive frown that had become its normal expression while he ate. "But other than you, Dumbledore, and Voldemort, I don't know one."

"There is another," Severus said softly.

Potter looked up. "Malfoy?"

Severus shook his head. "He is too weak to test you." _And, in any case, in no position right now to test you or anyone. _"But there is another, strong enough to make the contest interesting, and certainly no one whom you would mind hurting."

Potter leaned forward.

"The Occlumens who taught Draco," said Severus, enjoying himself. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

The smile of dark joy that widened across Potter's face at that fulfilled his dearest hopes for the boy, and Severus spent a pleasant few moments contemplating what Sirius Black would say if he could see his godson now.

_His death was a boon to the boy. It gave him the strength of mind to do this, and it removed someone who would certainly have objected to the kind of training Potter needed. Perhaps best not to put it to Potter in those words, but it is true._


	34. Bend, Or You Break

Thank you for the reviews! Someone asked how they were going after Bellatrix.

I'm so glad you asked.

_Chapter 34—Bend, Or You Break_

_Is he receiving them? And if he is, then why are all the letters I receive back from him in Snape's handwriting?_

Rufus stood at his window, frowning, as he watched yet another owl fly into the sky, heading for wherever Snape had Potter. He'd still sent truthful information, as much of it as he could neatly summarize in the whirlwind his life had become. Potter deserved to know that, beyond the attack on his best friends at Hogwarts, Death Eaters had targeted the Burrow, the home of his adopted family the Weasleys. Luckily, Dumbledore had thought they might after the attack on Granger and the youngest Weasley boy, and had visited the Burrow beforehand to weave wards that none of the Death Eaters could break through. You-Know-Who would, if he came himself, but as yet, he seemed reluctant to stir out of his self-imposed isolation.

Yet Potter never responded himself. It was always Snape, with reassurances about the boy's health and his continued training. The last letter had contained a single line about how Potter would be 'ready to take the field soon.'

But that was _all_.

_Has he read them? Does he know we need him to quicken the pace of his learning? People still believe the story that he's gone away for training—it's essentially true, after all—but it will take more than that to calm them after this latest attack._

Death Eaters had appeared in the middle of Diagon Alley in broad daylight and struck out wildly and randomly around them, killing more than thirty people and wounding more than twenty before the Aurors could arrive. Rufus, in a meeting with three Wizengamot members that he'd told no one to interrupt, had come out to find Aurors coming back already, only a few Death Eaters captured, and two of their own dead.

On the one hand, Rufus could almost understand if Snape was keeping the word of those deaths from Potter, so as not to distract and worry him when he needed to focus his mind on his training first of all.

On the other hand…

_He deserves to know. About the attacks on his friends, if nothing else. They were attacked solely for being his friends. Two Hogwarts students and the Burrow are not otherwise important strategic targets. _

Rufus abruptly put a hand on his desk and forced himself to calm down. One thing he _had_ to remember was that he didn't want to become like those mindless idiots who wrote letters to the _Daily Prophet_ wailing about how they had a _right_ to be saved by Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived wasn't even a legal adult yet, and it was ridiculous that thousands of adult wizards were depending solely on him.

But he was important as a symbol of hope, and as soon as his training was done, Rufus wanted him back again for the same reasons he'd wanted him to speak, openly, of his support for the Ministry: it calmed the panic that was almost as dangerous as the Death Eaters.

A tap at his door attracted his attention. Tonks opened it when he barked for her to enter, her face ashen.

"What is it?" Rufus asked quietly.

"It's—it's Hestia," Tonks said shakily. Her hair was a pale brown, and her cheeks looked sunken, though she'd been cheerful when Rufus had last seen her a few hours before. "They caught her as she was scouting Diagon Alley, and they used some spell on her—I don't know what it is, sir, it keeps flaying off her skin and then regrowing it, and then flaying it off again—" She stopped and looked at him appealingly.

Rufus nodded and snatched up his wand, then followed Tonks out the door.

He knew some of the Wizengamot members would say he shouldn't be this personally involved. After all, people were going to die in war. And the Minister of Magic was a target, too. And if he'd been anyone but Head of the Auror Office before he became Minister, he might have listened to them.

But he'd been Head of the Auror Office, and that meant he _knew_ the wizards and witches who struggled in the front lines with the Death Eaters. He'd shared their causes and their perils for nearly twenty years. And one thing he had done more than once—a secret preserved in careful silence among the Aurors—was assess the condition of a cursed comrade, try to reverse it, and, if necessary, put them into a coma for transference to St. Mungo's or perform a mercy killing.

The last option had been far more common when they'd been fighting Death Eaters in places warded against Apparition and Portkeys a long way from St. Mungo's during the First War, but sometimes it had been done even closer to home, when the person suffering for days on end under the hands of helpless Healers asked him for release from the pain. Whichever this turned out to be, Rufus was prepared to do what was necessary.

* * *

Severus sat back in his chair and studied the boy. Potter was engrossed in one of the Legilimency books he'd already read, reviewing what he had learned. He wished to go after Lestrange, and Severus could not blame him. The tactic had worked as he hoped it would. Potter showed every sign of joy since then, and no distressing reluctance to engage in the task.

He might, after what Severus had to tell him.

But there were some tests the boy had to face that had nothing to do with Legilimency, Severus thought, without pity. If he had truly mastered himself, he would face them. If he had not, then Severus had a job of training to do in any case, before he took Potter into the thick of battle.

_Potter thinks he's seen fighting, but he hasn't, not yet. That debacle in the Department of Mysteries comes closest, and when he contemplates it, he sees one death alone, not strategy and tactics._

"Potter," he said, and drew the boy's attention from the book he held. "I think we should hunt Bellatrix within the next few days."

As he had suspected it would, this made Potter lean forward, his eyes intent as a panther's behind his glasses. "When?" he demanded.

"The exact day will be determined by your answer to some questions of mine." Severus kept his voice neutral as he reached inside his robe pockets and pulled out the letters from Minister Scrimgeour. "First, you _do_ realize that we cannot simply stroll up to her and kill her?"

"Yes," said Potter. "I know that our bodies have to be safe somehow, so she can't disrupt the Legilimency just by casting a spell at us. And if anyone else is with her, we also have to be safe from their magic. So an ambush is the best way."

Severus had not expected the boy to remember those other considerations, he had to admit. He gave a short nod. "Yes. An ambush is my choice." He extended the Minister's letters. "I wish you to read through these before I tell you of the place."

Potter picked them up and began to read. His face altered color several times as he did; sometimes he turned pale, sometimes flushed, and sometimes he looked green. Once or twice he gave Severus an accusing glare, but at least he did not stop to scream the accusations. By now, he had learned that an answer to a question he had might yet lie ahead. He continued to read, his fingers twitching now and then as if he wanted to rip the letters to shreds.

When he had finished the last letter, about the attacks on Diagon Alley and the Burrow, he sat back, breathing deeply. Then he said, "You want to set up the attack in Diagon Alley, since that seems to be a favorite haunt of the Death Eaters in any case?"

"Close," said Severus. "Did you notice another common factor about the last few attacks?"

"They're on innocents." Potter had taken off his glasses, but that seemed to be simply to rub his scar better. Look as he might, Severus could see no trace of tears. That relieved him. He detested sniffling simpletons. "That much, I understood," Potter added bitterly.

"On innocents," Severus echoed softly. "And on your friends, Potter. The attack on the Burrow could have come for no other reason."

"Not because he thought there might be Order members there?" Potter pressed, looking hopeful.

Severus shook his head. "The Weasleys are hardly active members of the Order to the same extent that, say, Dumbledore is," he pointed out. "Mrs. Weasley remains at home, and Mr. Weasley goes in so regularly to his work at the Ministry that he seems to have no time for a secret agenda."

Potter nodded, his eyes lowered.

"So," Severus said. "We know that the Dark Lord is interested in attacking your friends. There is a target in Diagon Alley that belongs to your friends."

Potter's hands tightened briefly on the blankets. "Fred and George's shop," he said.

Severus tilted his head. "So far, it has not been attacked, doubtless because it was among the first shops in the street to lift powerful wards, and the Weasley brothers Floo home along protected passages," he said. "But sooner or later, it must become a focus of the Dark Lord's attention, as it remains open. That is the place I intend to ambush Bellatrix."

"There must be more," Potter said.

"And why?" Among the other things he was trying to train the boy in was logic. Severus thought his reasons for deciding as important as the actual decisions he made.

"Because there always is with you." Potter lifted his head and put his glasses back on, probably to study his face better. "What is it?"

"Acceptable, Potter," Severus said, after considering. "But try to abstract general principles from these situations that will allow you to judge all your enemies, not simply your allies."

Potter made an impatient move with one hand, still watching him intently.

"I intend for you to send dreams to Bellatrix, stirring up her deepest desires and making her certain that she can attack the shop," Severus said. "We will choose the day as soon as we see how strong your dream-sending is. The Dark Lord is unlikely to think much of his strongest servant—now that I have gone—clamoring for the task. Your manipulation should go undetected, at least if you have advanced as much in Legilimency as I think you have."

"And we can warn Fred and George—"

"No," said Severus, and waited.

Potter's face drained of blood again, and this time what it left behind was anger, not fear. He leaned forwards. "What did you say?"

Severus felt the boy's Legilimency pushing at his shields, and steered it aside. _He is a fool if he thinks he can give this up when the war is done. He already uses it in preference to ordinary eye contact. _"I said that we will not warn them," he said. "We must have the bait in the trap. Therefore, the Weasley twins will come to work on the day of their ambush."

"You don't understand, Snape." Potter was trying to control himself, and failing badly. "I _won't_ risk their lives."

"Then this plan will fail."

"No. We can—"

"You have communicated with no one since you arrived here." Severus leaned forwards. "How would you explain an owl suddenly arriving with a letter from you? And the Death Eaters will be watching for it, you may expect that. There are spells that can reveal the origin of an owl. They are complicated, and tedious to maintain—not worth the effort, most of the time, for a large number of people. Be assured the Dark Lord will be using them, however, to find out whether an owl has come from you."

"Then he should also be using them to find out whether an owl's come from you," Potter insisted. "And that means that our deception's already revealed, since you've been replying to the Minister's letters."

Severus smugly shook his head. "When I prepared Bolthole, I wove precautions against that into the wards. Besides, it is much harder to trace an owl when it has come _to_ a target from somewhere else, and the Minister has always sent his owls to me, not the other way around."

"Why aren't precautions against tracing my owls in the wards?"

Severus sneered; this was sloppy thinking, below the threshold he intended that Potter should maintain and hold now. "The wards take months to create. And I hardly planned to bring you with me, at the time."

Potter closed his eyes. "Then _you_ could write to them."

"You have not understood me, Potter." Severus shifted closer again. "If the Weasley boys fail to appear on the very day of the attack, it could not be a clearer trap if we appeared in the middle of the Alley shouting it at the top of our lungs."

"But they might be hurt or killed."

"Yes. They might be."

Potter snarled at him, without opening his eyes.

"That is the risk we must take," Severus hissed at him. "If we control the timing of Bellatrix's appearance, and thus the appearance of any Death Eaters she might bring with her, then the risk of harm to your friends significantly decreases. But it cannot be made nonexistent. In war, no chance of harm can be."

"I would be using their lives as bait without their permission," Potter said quietly.

"This is war."

"But the risks should be willing as far as possible."

Severus laughed. "There speaks the Gryffindor! Yes, perhaps they should be, Potter. But that is not always the result." He nodded to the Minister's letters. "I kept those from you because I thought you did not need the distraction of worry during your training. And now, here they are, so that you know of the attacks. And the attacks will continue while you make up your mind, and worry about people you know dying." He paused. "A pity that you cannot extend that compassion to strangers. Rather like the way you have not comprehended Slytherins as people since you entered Hogwarts."

Potter flinched. Then he said, "Go away. I need to think." He folded his hands behind his head and lay as still as a hibernating snake.

Severus thought of saying something else, but, in the end, refrained. It was for the best if the boy convinced himself, rather than being bullied into it. He could always claim later that he _had_ been bullied into it, if Severus persuaded him. And Severus did not want that. Potter would not hide from the decisions he made. There was too much chance of him flinching at the last moment with Bellatrix or the Dark Lord if he did.

He passed into his own room, to begin consulting his books for the useful potions for this endeavor.

* * *

He didn't _want_ to.

That was the overriding impulse in Harry's mind. Even the thought of putting some of the Weasleys in deliberate danger made his skin crawl.

It was all right if he got hurt. It was all right if Voldemort got hurt. And he was positively looking forward to hurting Bellatrix. This was a way of paying his debt to Sirius without dying himself.

But—

It wasn't right for anyone else to get hurt.

_It's happening anyway, _said the clear voice of his conscience, or experience, or whatever else it was. Harry had come to think it could only be a half-conscience at best, because it urged him to do things he didn't think were right. _All these attacks. Your being gone and battling Voldemort in your mind and Snape's didn't do anything to keep Ron and Hermione from the Death Eaters. And Bellatrix was there, too, the Minister's letter said. Don't you think she deserves to die? Shouldn't you be willing to risk just about anything for that? _

_Fred and George might die._

_They probably won't. You heard Snape._

'_Probably' isn't good enough._

_Then what is?_

And that was the problem. If Harry could have come up with a brilliant alternative to Snape's plan, then he should have. But he couldn't, and that made it seem as though Snape's incredibly risky plot was—well, still risky, but necessary.

His hand tightened on the letters again, so hard he nearly tore them. He could stop the suffering. He wanted to. He had the tools to do it, now, and the commitment to inflicting pain as necessary.

And was one objection to the means of doing so to stop him now?

_But what happens if this is_ the_ moral objection I should have paid attention to? The one chance to stop myself from becoming immoral? _

_Do you have a better plan? _his half-conscience asked again.

No, he didn't. And while he tried to find one, people would carry on dying.

_A few days to enslave Bellatrix, and then I can hunt Voldemort._

Harry swallowed. His head ached, and his throat and his temples alike felt hot and dry. He didn't want to do this. But he didn't think he had a choice. And if he had to bear the consequences of a decision gone wrong—

_Well, then that's what I'll do. It's more cowardly to make a choice and then run away from the blame. I'll stand by mine. If I'm wrong, at least I can acknowledge I'm wrong. _Harry smiled without humor. _If I'm wrong, the _Daily Prophet_ can at least fault me for something I actually did. It'll be a new experience for them._

He opened his eyes, and called, "Professor Snape?"

The man was in the room in a moment, gazing at him in silence.

Harry looked back. This was a time he would have been grateful for a gap in Snape's Occlumency shields, despite the weakness that would have implied for their side. The dark eyes were simply fathomless, opaque. "I'll do it," he said.

Snape's face, surprisingly enough, cracked into the sneer he used when he was feeling in comradeship with Harry, and despising the rest of the world instead of him. Harry blinked. He had expected scorn directed at _him_, instead, for taking so long to come to a decision.

"And already you have proven yourself more capable than half the imbeciles in the Order," Snape murmured. "They would rather witter on and on in 'debates' about their tactics, rather than make the choices they know are cruel."

Harry remembered, then, without anyone to remind him, that Snape himself had made those choices and continued to spy on Voldemort long after it had become painful and dangerous. It could be argued that he had to, since no other Death Eater was loyal to the Order of the Phoenix, but he could have refused because it was immoral to watch Muggles being killed and do nothing, which Harry knew Snape had done more than once.

Once, he would have been horrified at the thought of having anything in common with Snape. Now, it seemed inevitable.

He nodded. "Where are the books on dream-sending?" _The sooner I do this, the sooner we can tear Voldemort's mind to pieces._


	35. Half a Conscience

Thanks for the reviews! I'm glad Chapter 34 seemed serious, as it was most definitely meant to; this isn't a decision that Harry made lightly, and it is one that will change him.

Just a warning: This chapter is a mixture of conversations, snippets of the book Harry's reading, and ventures into Bellatrix's mind.

_Chapter 35—Half a Conscience_

_The balance necessary to send dreams to another Legilimens is not easily achieved. For one thing, the conscious human mind has been trained to dismiss or ignore most dreams, so the thought the first Legilimens wants to project stands a large chance of not rising to the surface. For another, the dream must be persistent enough not to be forgotten, but not so persistent as to seem unnatural. The moment the victim suspects that his or her own mind is not responsible for the new images and desires, but that an outside force is, all is lost._

* * *

"Relax, Potter. You are still too agitated to send that dream," Snape's voice said sharply. "A one-year-old child would suspect that something is wrong. Why would Bellatrix be _distressed_ over killing one of the Weasleys? You must remove your own distress from the equation."

Harry licked his lips and tried to resist snapping back that most one-year-old children would not know Legilimency. The sarcasm would have made him feel better, but also would probably have started an argument, which was unlikely to _calm_ him. He could do this. He had fought for and managed to win self-control. He would do this. He concentrated intensely, and spun the dream in his head, reshaping it so that an element of dark joy entered the place where he'd put dismay.

It was an odd process, this crafting of dreams. Harry had thought he'd picture images and then seek to establish a connection with Bellatrix's mind. Instead, he had to build up images from separate shards, more like a puzzle than a photograph. The shards were emotions, physical details that would reveal the place and time he wanted Bellatrix to attack Fred and George's shop, and nets that would, if they worked, prevent her from realizing this dream was an intrusion.

Snape had said this method was more advantageous than the simple creation of images, because he could alter one detail without having to destroy the whole and begin over again. Harry had to admit he was probably right, but that didn't make it any easier, especially when Snape made him practice moving the shards around in his mind and assembling different mosaics. It seemed so intricate, an art that ought to take him weeks to learn, and he had only days.

Then he reminded himself what Snape had said about belief and desire being such an important factor in Legilimency. If he convinced himself that this ought to take weeks, that was how long it would take. And it couldn't. So he concentrated on it taking days instead, and spun a new shard into place.

"Let me see, Potter."

Harry opened his eyes and gazed straight back at Snape, relaxing his shields enough to let the pattern through. He had to fight his own rushing breath and the panicked sensation that he should shut his mind, _now_, even against the touch of a Legilimens he knew was friendly. Occlumency had become such a part of him that it felt unnatural when he couldn't defend his thoughts.

Snape nodded, and sat back. "Better. But strengthen the joy. And increase the lack of patterns."

Harry grimaced. He knew what Snape meant by that. He'd established contact with Bellatrix's mind once already, working off a combination of his memories of her, Snape's memories, the trust between _them_, and the connection to Voldemort through the Dark Mark.

It had not been pleasant.

_

* * *

_

_The dream-sender must also learn an openness that is not common among ordinary people, let alone those who practice Legilimency. No matter what his surprise or disgust at the contents of his victim's mind, he must think in all respects like him or her while in his or her mind—and at the same time retain enough of a detached distance not to become sucked in and turn into no more than another thought process. Such fates have befallen practitioners of the mental art before this._

* * *

Harry had thought the book was exaggerating until he visited Bellatrix's mind. How could someone become a thought _process_? His own Occlumency book had said that the attraction of one's own mind and body was strong, which was why the Beholding maze had to be so perfect. Otherwise, the trapped victim would know very well that he wasn't surrounded by himself.

But either Legilimency was different, or the connection from such a distance when one didn't share the odd bond that Harry and Voldemort did was different, or the author had known someone like Bellatrix.

The first time Harry opened his eyes in Bellatrix's dreaming mind, he had nearly gone insane.

There were no patterns. Or, there were patterns _everywhere_, and none of them were the right ones. Bellatrix didn't live in a world where conclusions followed naturally from what one saw. She could, and did, see pleasure in the extreme pain of others; they cried out, she thought, because they wanted her to continue the torture, even to increase it so that they might weep and suffer, because weeping and suffering were the only true enjoyment. She wondered when rain fell from the sky. She could not connect it to the thunder that had sounded only a few hours before. She looked at walls, and saw them splinter into glittering patterns of snowflakes unless someone stood in front of them with a wand pointed at her.

It made her deadly in battle. It made her unfit to live in normal society. Harry supposed that Voldemort's will restrained her most of the time, or she would probably have killed all her fellow Death Eaters.

It was also obvious how she had survived Azkaban with so much of her fighting skill intact. The Dementors could drain her of joy, but they could not touch any core of sanity, because there was no core of sanity _left._

Over and around and through everything writhed the iron coil of her loyalty to Voldemort, the chain on which the amulets of her actions were strung. Harry saw at once that, rather than surprise or disgust, his major problem in navigating Bellatrix's mind would be his own antipathy to Voldemort. He had to avoid detesting the monster too much in her thoughts, or she would know that it was not herself and thrust him out of her mind in a moment.

Her Occlumency was like plate armor, laid across vulnerabilities that Harry had to accept were real to her, because he himself wouldn't have seen a need to protect that part of his mind. Any mental image she formed, like Snape's glossy dark walls or his own shields, was cracked and crazed almost at once, in constant motion. At one moment Harry was looking at something like a sea of quicksilver, the next a twisted and warped wood, the next a room so thickly piled with corpses that they rose to lap like water around the knees of Voldemort, sitting on a throne twenty feet tall.

Harry constantly dodged, and, though Snape had insisted Bellatrix was mad and thus her attempts to teach Occlumency to Malfoy nearly useless, he had to admire the intricate, cunning structure of it anyway. Bellatrix was so mad that she caused problems for anyone sane probing her mind. Her thought processes changed from moment to moment, and woe to them if they were left behind.

Sometimes, Harry thought he might have given up.

But, floating amidst all the others, as a cherished memory that Bellatrix relived whenever she thought to, he caught a glimpse of Sirius falling through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries.

That was all he needed. Sirius had died, and this woman still walked the earth. It should not be. Harry turned back to the study of Bellatrix's mind, and he gave it his whole heart.

_

* * *

_

_Choose a careful cadence for sending the dream. The human mind descends regularly into deep sleep throughout the night, so the dream can be sent more than once. But it must be light, moving to the music of the target mind, or, once again, it is likely to reveal its alien origin._

* * *

"Do you think you are ready, Potter?" Severus waited for the boy on the bed to nod. "Good," he said. And he did think Potter was ready, himself; he had given as much determination to this study as he had to the study of ordinary Legilimency, while he was still mastering that. "For now, you should rest. When the time comes, we will use the spell I showed you to put you into a light trance."

He started to stand, but Potter said, "Sir."

Severus paused. Potter largely used the title now only when he was anxious about something. And, sure enough, the boy stared at his hands, at the blankets, and at the walls for a moment each. Severus still waited instead of snapping. Potter's state of mind was important enough this evening that he did not long to unbalance it, even by a comment that would have given him the control.

At last, Potter said, "Sir, if I can learn to send dreams to Bellatrix, couldn't I send dreams to Fred and George, too? Not warning them not to come in," he added hastily. "Just—warning them to be a little more careful the day of the attack, that's all. Make sure their wards are strong."

Severus gazed at him for a long moment. Yes, he'd made strides, but not far enough.

Once again, Severus controlled the impulse to yell. He and Potter hadn't spoken at all about the boy's decision to risk his friends' lives after he'd made it. That had, in a way, disturbed Severus. One did not go from being an open, fair-minded, self-sacrificing Gryffindor to a calculating, cautious Slytherin committed to the greater good in ten minutes, the amount of time it had taken Potter to make his decision. This discussion might work wonders to dispel the last of Potter's doubts. The _last_ thing Severus wanted was the boy keeping silent out of some misguided notion of "honor" or "stoicism," and then breaking as he tried to kill Bellatrix.

Best to shatter the illusions now.

"No," he said quietly. "You cannot send them dreams."

Potter squinted at him, but said nothing.

"Tell me why," Severus demanded.

"Neither of them's a Legilimens," said Potter, voice slow, reluctant, but clear. "I'd have to learn a different art altogether."

Severus nodded sharply. "Yes, you would. All minds that share a talent for Legilimency share, also, certain basic understandings—a similar openness, if you will. It is actually easier to reach them through dreams than to reach a mind completely unused to the mental arts via the same methods. Imagine working twice, or three times, as hard as you have worked to reach Bellatrix. We do not have the time."

Potter swallowed once or twice. Then he whispered, "No, we don't."

Severus nodded again, and Potter closed his eyes as if he would rest. Now that the subject had arisen, however, Severus was not inclined to let it go. _Thresh this out, and he should be able to relax._

"Why did you make the choice you did, Potter?" he asked.

Startled green eyes fluttered open and stared at him for a moment. Then Potter said, "Because it was the right one."

"But how did you convince yourself of that?"

He received a smile startling in its bitterness. Oh, he had seen more bitter ones looking back at him from the mirror all the time, but he had lived far longer and made far more crucial choices than Potter had ever dreamed of. "My half a conscience."

"Your what?"

Potter flushed, and looked down at his hands on the blankets. "It sounds stupid, now I say it out loud," he muttered. _Most things that come out of your mouth do, _Severus wanted to say; it was still so hard to restrain the sharp edge of his tongue. "I just—I have a voice in my head. I've heard it since this summer. I thought it was the voice of my debt to Sirius at first, then my conscience—but it was the part of me that suggested I had no choice but to plan the ambush at Fred and George's shop. So I think it can only be half a conscience, because that decision isn't completely right."

"You are wrong on all three counts, Potter."

He looked up in surprise. "Then—it's _you_, sir?"

"No, you stupid boy," Severus hissed, irritated. Potter _would_ use logic if Severus had to practice it on him thirteen times daily. "If I had known your plan during the summer, why would I have let you nearly kill yourself? No, Potter, that voice is your own. Not an outside force controlling you, not an alien telling you what to do. _You_, yourself, contain the seeds of sacrifice, and of strategic decision-making. To you go the glory and the horror of what you do. Think of it that way, because to assign it a name separate from your own is a dangerous illusion you cannot afford."

"But a protective one," said Potter, and pain had shadowed his eyes again.

"Perhaps." Severus flicked his fingers as if brushing off a piece of dust. "But, Potter, _listen_ to me now. People who cannot bear what they do, who talk grandly but flinch when the test comes, are the ones to whom such illusions naturally belong. They want to think they were only following orders or a 'higher purpose.' That has been their excuse throughout time. The _true_ heroes are the ones who know that they, themselves, are to blame or to honor for their actions. If you are only following orders, how can your achievement be your own any more than your failure is? You _must_ accept that _you_ are the one doing this, Potter, _you_ and no one else."

If Potter had felt stupid speaking his fears about his half a conscience, Severus felt dangerously so committing himself to a speech like this. It was what he truly believed, but how many people had ever been interested in what he truly believed? So he took a risk in placing his deepest self before Potter.

However, Potter only stared hard at him for a few moments, then asked an unusually intelligent question.

"If you think people who make hard decisions are heroes, sir, then why don't you approve of the decisions Dumbledore made? Those are hard, too."

Severus relaxed and smirked. "They are," he said. "But he asks people to take up burdens and face dangers that he does not take up or face himself. To ask a child to face the Dark Lord, when his is the infinitely greater power and wisdom? To send _me_ to spy, when he could have used his own Legilimency to try and establish a link with the Dark Lord's mind?" He paused a moment when the next words rose to his lips, but Potter would have to know he knew sooner or later. "To place the most valuable child in our world in danger from being abused or permanently twisted by Muggles, when he could have taken over his raising himself?"

Potter froze, eyes wide.

Then he said softly, "You read—it. The list I left for the Dursleys in my will."

"Yes." Severus leaned back, and chose his words more carefully than ever. "If you are looking for pity, you may search me and find none."

"_Good._"

There was a fire burning in Potter's eyes, a stubborn mask Severus hadn't seen in a week now. It declared that the boy was ready to close himself off completely if Severus expressed pity, compassion, or anything of the kind.

Holding that fiery gaze, Severus added, "But it was a vital tool in helping me understand why you decided to commit suicide—that and your Veritaserum confession. And rest assured, Potter, you cannot and _will_ not go back there. Around Muggles, without a restraining guardian, Legilimency like yours would be endlessly troublesome."

Slowly, still tense in every muscle, Potter nodded. He did not ask questions about what would happen to him after the war, if he lived, and Severus did not wish to answer them.

Instead, Potter closed his eyes, and lay still. Severus turned to depart.

Perhaps prompted by the question from Potter, his thoughts rested on Dumbledore.

_If you see him alive again, old man, I doubt you will recognize him._

* * *

It was a process of motion.

Moment by moment, Harry wove the dream of Fred and George's shop, now attuning it to the vanity and pride in Bellatrix's mind, now to her delight in personally accomplishing things for her Lord, now to her sheer homicidal madness. He had had to use part of his own hatred for Voldemort, masked, in this case, as hatred for Voldemort's enemies, to fuel the images.

So he watched as Fred and George writhed under _Crucio_, or died from the blood boiling in their veins, or had their legs twisted like branches until they broke, and he knew that he was the source of those images, ones that would seem natural to Bellatrix.

And he kept going.

Four times that night he wove the dream into her dreams, and four times the next night, and three the next. And on that third night he opened his eyes to find Snape sitting by his bed, and nodded.

"I'm ready to kill her," he said quietly.


	36. As You Fall

Thanks again for the reviews!

**Warning: **this chapter is **nasty**. Not for gore, exactly, but in the descriptions. Feel free to start skimming if you need to.

_Chapter 36—As You Fall_

"You can walk, I assume."

Snape stood by, not offering a hand, as Harry levered himself gingerly out of bed. He half-expected to crumple the moment his feet touched the floor, even though he'd practiced walking, along with Legilimency and dream-sending, for the last week. But his legs held him, though he was still shaky, and he held a hand in front of him, staring at it critically. It didn't tremble.

When he nodded, Snape put his wand in his hand.

Harry glanced at it and tightened his grip on it. He was glad to have it back, but he realized he had almost got used to not having it during the last few weeks. It wasn't his wand that would kill Voldemort.

"How close was I to dying from the Medea's Draught, sir?" he asked then. It was something he'd been wondering about, but hadn't had the time or, at first, the courage to ask about.

Snape, who had his eyes closed and was probably communing with the wards around Bolthole to let them through, snapped them open then. "Close enough," he said. "I had to use stabilizing charms on you, as if you were a potion."

Harry nodded. He hadn't realized how close it had been, and how, more obviously than ever, he owed Snape his life.

_Well, the adult thing to do is pay that debt without flinching, just the way that you'll make this decision and face up to the consequences without flinching. _Harry had already dreaded, alternately, what would happen if one of the twins found out what he'd chosen today and what would happen if _Ron_ found out.

That didn't change his mind. What was chosen was chosen, and, think though he would, he hadn't come up with any other way to defeat Bellatrix.

"Do please tell me if you are planning to poison yourself again," Snape added snidely, and Harry looked up to see his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flaring. "We can remain here, in that case, and I will kill you myself, so that Bellatrix is not troubled."

Harry chuckled. It wasn't humorous, exactly, but what Snape said was so far from how he felt now that Harry couldn't really imagine being interested in suicide again. He had two people to kill, after all, and he couldn't kill them if he were dead. "I'm not," he said. "Will you Apparate us now, sir?"

Snape snatched his arm without a word and Apparated them, which Harry had to admit was an effective demonstration of how ready he was.

* * *

Rufus tightened his hand on the paper in front of him and considered it carefully. It was unsigned, but he knew the handwriting by now.

_There will be a Death Eater attack in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes at ten-o'clock this morning. You will oblige me by arriving _then _and stopping the Death Eaters. Coming earlier will upset our plans._

Rufus did not know what to make of that. Was he going to _trust_ Snape? True, he had trusted him to take care of Harry Potter, a grave task enough, but he did not know if he could trust him to report on the movements of his former fellows. Dumbledore had, and Dumbledore had lost him.

"Sir?"

Rufus looked up. Tonks stood in front of him, gaze expectant. He had called her in when he saw Snape's letter, and only then changed his mind and considered obeying it. How much could he trust Snape? Enough to send a single Auror and order her to wait, no matter what happened?

No, he realized. He must trust Snape absolutely or not at all. Tonks, like almost any Auror, had a strong objection to seeing innocent lives put in danger. She would probably attack the moment she saw that, no matter what time he sent her, nine or nine-thirty or ten.

"Never mind, Nymphadora," he said, and saw her wince. She probably thought he was angry with her now. To take her mind off that, Rufus added, "Is it possible for you to imitate the face of someone recently dead?"

Tonks blinked, looking startled. "It—should be," she said.

"How long would you need to practice?"

Tonks grimaced. "Well enough to fool people who knew him well? A half-hour or so, sir."

Rufus nodded absently, and dismissed her. That was at least useful information to have, and he might be able to use it later in battle. Then he sat back and studied Snape's letter again.

He was not certain he trusted the man, and he had the temptation to go to the Alley half-an-hour early to see for himself. But what if he would destroy the ambush or the trap Snape and Potter had created that way?

It seemed he would have to wait and trust, just the way he had since that first meeting with Potter.

Rufus grimaced and leaned his head back against his chair. Natural as the position was for someone with a bad leg and someone in charge of the affairs at a high level, he _hated _waiting.

* * *

They appeared just behind the joke shop, as Severus had intended they should. He kept a tight grip on Potter's arm as he scanned the street in front of the shop. No one was here yet, and he relaxed. They should not be. It was a few minutes before nine, and Harry had sent the dream telling Bellatrix to come when the clock chimed. So powerful was the strange splinter-logic of her mind combined with the dream's insistence that Severus did not expect her until then, but it was always best to be prepared for the worst.

"Potter?" he asked quietly, and was rewarded with a sharp look from the boy, who had probably been turning over Legilimency techniques in his mind for the last time. Severus produced the Invisibility Cloak from one pocket. "You will wear this. I will patrol the street and fight the battle with any of her comrades who appear, but it is imperative that you have protection during the battle, so that she cannot simply knock you over with a curse."

With a nod, Potter took the Cloak and drew it over his head, vanishing from sight. Severus snorted. With all the mischief that Cloak had been put to against him, by two generations of Potters, it was a satisfaction to know that, for once, it would be used to do right.

He checked the wards on the Weasleys' shop as he edged around it. They hummed with life, and he could hear a soft thump now and then, and a mild oath, as the brats inside readied their wares for their opening hour, which was at nine-thirty this morning. Severus sneered to himself. Cruel as the choice might have been, he _had_ tried to minimize the element of risk to both Weasleys and innocent customers.

He wondered if the Weasleys would see it that way. He already knew Potter would, if he pointed out the consideration to him when the boy was not quite so occupied with killing Bellatrix.

It was odd, really, how much he trusted Potter—not merely to hear his innermost sentiments and not laugh, but with this. The rest of the world tended not to understand his decisions and his principles, but now he had someone on his side of the abyss, with a vast gap opening between them, Dumbledore, and, Severus suspected more and more each day, Potter's former friends.

He would have said he would have that much in common with Lucius Malfoy before he'd have it with Harry Potter.

He snapped his eyes up as a clock began to chime in one of the other shops. A moment later, the sharp _cracks_ of Apparition cut the air.

He smiled slowly. They had suggested that Bellatrix bring three Death Eaters with her as "witnesses," and that many had come. But the one his eyes fixed on was the woman in the center, who wore no mask, as if supremely confident that a dozen Aurors could not stop her from escaping. Her long dark hair flowed free of her hood as she stared at the shop with a greedy eye.

Severus glanced once towards where Potter waited on the right side of the shop, then cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and began to move towards the two men who stood to the right side of Bellatrix.

_She's all yours, Potter._

* * *

Harry had expected that he'd have more nervousness when Bellatrix actually appeared. But it was as though all his emotions had drained away, even his self-loathing, even his last panicky fears about whether he'd actually done the right thing.

_Here I am._

_And there she is._

Harry raised his head, fixed his eyes on Bellatrix's through the thin film of the Cloak, and then launched himself into her mind.

It would have been impossible without his previous experience of it. New images and shattering patterns he hadn't seen before sped around him—and of course he hadn't seen them before, since Bellatrix's mind changed from moment to moment. He would have gone mad figuring out what he should do next, and, in the meantime, Bellatrix was aware of him, her own Legilimency rearing like a startled serpent.

With his previous experience, Harry could keep his balance, and he also knew what he was supposed to do.

_Rend. Tear. Kill._

He used Merlin's Hooks for the first strike. Envisioning a net tipped with barbs lashing around his head, he swung it ahead of him and around one of the plate-armored chinks in Bellatrix's mind. The hooks sliced through the plate armor; her startlement had helped weaken her defenses. Then Harry made a sharp motion with one hand, and the metal sheared in half with a terrific screeching sound. Harry dimly heard it echoed by a shriek in the physical world. If Bellatrix had been hurt this badly since Azkaban, he didn't think she remembered it.

Then he was gone, leaping further and further into her mind.

And now the emotionless shell dropped away from him as he called on the emotions he needed for this. The cold, black hatred he had used when he overpowered Snape was there, flowing around him like tarry water. He _loathed_ this woman. He wanted her dead. Sirius was dead, and she didn't deserve to join him where he was—she wouldn't, Harry was sure—but she didn't deserve to live, either.

And no one would punish her if he did not. She would only be put back into Azkaban if she were captured, which he already knew was no punishment to her, and he couldn't count on someone killing her in battle, she was so good with a wand.

It had to be this way.

He aimed straight at one of the more vulnerable parts of her mind, her memory, and ripped into it. Bellatrix screamed in absolute pain, and shards of thought passed under his mental claws like shards of bone. He didn't care. He bore down harder, in fact, tearing and grinding, ripping out images of Bellatrix's childhood and making them spin past him. Sometimes he thought he recognized Grimmauld Place, and once or twice he saw Sirius and was tempted to pause in the destruction to watch.

But he stopped himself from that, just as he stopped himself from hoping that Fred and George had sense enough to stay in their shop. Those weren't his concerns, nor his fight. _This_ was.

Bellatrix uttered a long, agonized yell.

Harry ripped the central core of her memory open, and then she began to fight back.

* * *

Bellatrix was screaming.

Severus rejoiced to hear it.

The other Death Eaters she'd brought with her had stared at her in silence while she writhed, but when she began to scream, they drew their wands, bewildered but obviously willing to fight the invisible threat. It was Severus's job to see to it that they could not interfere with Potter, especially by a lucky shot.

_Ophiogenes!_ he incanted in his mind, pointing his wand at the nearest Death Eater, a bulky fellow who was probably a recent recruit.

A small rain of vipers manifested in the air over the man, and fell on top of him. The man cried out as venom began to pump into his veins, assisted there by cruel, eager fangs. His two companions paused, helpless, looking back and forth between the screaming Bellatrix and the screaming man.

Severus gave them no time to truly react. His eye and his wand were on the next man in line. _Cremo!_

Flames exploded from under the wizard's heart, his ribcage, his lungs. With his inner organs and his throat charred to ash in seconds, he had no time even to scream. Severus turned leisurely to his third victim, wrinkling his nose slightly at the stink of burning flesh.

The third man had a Shield Charm up and was looking warily about. He was slightly more skilled than the others, then. Severus felt a moment's gladness that he could cost the Dark Lord a Death Eater who might have been troublesome.

Then he forced the gladness away. Killing in cold blood was always preferable to killing in hot. He took careful aim at the center of the Shield Charm, and hurled a Shattering Curse.

The Death Eater went backwards, breathless, as his defense split down the middle. Severus paced a few steps closer, estimating distance and how quickly the startlement would fade from his opponent's face. When the man dazedly lifted his head, he cast the Decapitating Curse, and watched with detached interest as the equally detached head sailed across the street.

Screams echoed from around him, but the shoppers had fled and those with sanctuaries in Diagon Alley had shut themselves up tight in their houses or shops. Severus cast the Mirage Shield with a twist of his wand, and the air around them thinned and twisted and vanished. Should anyone look out, they would only see a calm street, without bodies. Severus added a mild repelling charm to that, so that no one would want to look any closer.

Finally, he cast a glamour, which he dismissed with another wave of his wand. Anyone trying to sense a magical signature would sense the glamour first, and probably come to suspect that the entire attack had been an illusion engineered for the purposes of fear and shock, given that there were no bodies. That would distract attention until more determined seekers, the Aurors, arrived.

That done, Severus turned to watch Potter slaughter his prey. He was breathing lightly, not at all tired, and his knew that his eyes shone with triumph. Killing was not something he took an especial pride in, but being able to use the Dark Arts better and more quickly than his enemies was.

* * *

Bellatrix hit Harry with a flood of sadistic pleasure.

He should have expected the attack, really. Long experience with other people would have taught Bellatrix that they did not share her delight in pain, though she would not have been able to make the logical connection and understand _why_. It was the one emotion most guaranteed, therefore, to make another Legilimens recoil in disgust and allow her to use her formidable defenses.

And it nearly did for Harry. He had hatred, but this feeling was alien. He held on, just, as it swept over him like a flood of liquefied, rotting flesh, and when it receded, he knew another would follow it.

_You know what you must do, _said his half a conscience—no, he said to himself. If Snape was right, he couldn't hide behind illusions anymore.

So he did it. He had sadistic impulses, too, or he would not have been able to weave the dreams for Bellatrix of the Weasley twins dying and convince her they were her own. He had only to summon it.

It was the desire to hurt Bellatrix herself that he drew on, the same yearning that had made him cast _Crucio_ at her after she killed Sirius, and which had matured with the months into a great dark hatred. He wanted her dead, yes, or he would never have ventured here today, but he wanted her to _suffer_, too. He longed to hear her bones break, her flesh tear, her limbs pop out of joint as he twisted them. The dreams had flashed across him when he lay in bed that summer, in the sixth-year boys' room in Gryffindor Tower, and in his room at Bolthole. He had always dismissed them at once, but they existed, incredibly detailed impulses to hurt, nearly sexual in their intensity.

He filled Bellatrix's mind with that, and, when the tide of rotting flesh came again as her Occlumency defense, it mingled with what he'd summoned instead of sweeping him away. Bellatrix could not find him in the midst of a feeling that seemed so entirely her own. She paused, uncertain.

And Harry, shaking with the need for it, sliced her.

It wasn't just memories he tore; it was the warped logical connections she had managed to establish, her senses, her loyalty to Voldemort, and her knowledge of elementary realities like her name and her age and her birthplace. He tore them apart, ground them into pieces, pulverized them into less than dirt. Every defense she raised, he destroyed. The screams were deep and sweet. A taste like blood was in his throat. Her pulse thundered in his ears, and he didn't want it to cease.

She deserved to be ravaged, raped, torn. Harry wondered that he could have ever feared this part of himself. He laughed and gloried in it as he tunneled deeper and deeper, making her face parts of herself she never knew existed, tossing her subconscious into the air in bloody tatters.

And then the same cold voice that was himself said, _This is needless._

Harry paused, his breath heaving through him, the desire to hear her scream all a hunger greater than he'd ever felt for food. He _throbbed._ He had to go on, didn't he? He deserved to hear her scream as much as she deserved to die.

_But the important thing is killing her, not hurting her._

Harry felt the overwhelming keenness of his wish to hurt diminish for just one moment, leaving him shaky but clear-headed, and he took that moment. He whirled on Bellatrix, the helpless center of her mind that kept her conscious and alive, and he crushed it with all his might.

The light and the pain around him went out like a snuffed candle, and Harry found himself forcefully propelled back into his body. After a moment of gasping under the Invisibility Cloak, he realized there was a simple reason for that: Bellatrix had no mind to contain him in, anymore.

He pulled the Cloak back and stared. Bellatrix lay on the ground, her face blank, the muscles relaxed as if they could never have moved into a smile or a sneer. Her long black hair sprawled around her. Harry expected to see her chest move, but he hadn't turned her into a vegetable, the way that normal Beholding might do to a Legilimens. He had destroyed her brain so completely that he'd killed her.

He recalled his frenzy, and shuddered. Gray shock separated him from the world for the moment, but he knew that, when sense returned, he would loathe what he had done. Or maybe he would loathe himself. He couldn't tell yet.

"Mr. Potter."

He looked up. Snape knelt in front of him, one hand out.

"You did what needed to be done," he said.

"I—" Harry swallowed through a throat gone thick with bile and more viscous liquids. "I tormented her when I didn't need to."

Snape's eyes remained calm. "Then you have exercised your more sadistic impulses on a lesser enemy. When we go after the Dark Lord, you will not give in to them, will you? You will concentrate on killing him." He paused, then added, almost gently, "Killing in cold blood is better, but sometimes one must murder, once, while the blood is hot."

Harry wasn't sure he believed that. He didn't really know what to believe, anymore. He had thought that he'd made the only choice he could and people like Dumbledore were wrong, but when such consequences followed from the choice…

"Come," Snape said.

Harry moved mechanically towards him, and Snape took his arm, then enfolded him in a sweep of his own cloak. Harry heard a noise above him in the moment before they Apparated, though, and looked up.

The Weasley twins crowded at a window of their shop, staring at him in utter and absolute horror.

Then they were gone.

* * *

By the time Rufus and his Aurors arrived a few minutes later, summoned early by the panicked residents of Diagon Alley, there were only the bodies to be found. 


	37. Fruitful Mistrust

Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter! As for whether this fic is still a WIP, yes; I'm writing it as I go along. I'm posting this chapter now because I won't have time to write it in the morning.

A note about "fruitful" in the title of the chapter: It does not mean productive so much as _re_productive.

_Chapter 37—Fruitful Mistrust_

Rufus looked around the Headmaster's office. He knew he should feel honored and privileged. He'd barely returned to the Ministry with the Death Eaters' bodies, including the corpse of Bellatrix Lestrange, when the summons had come from Dumbledore. He was invited to meet of the Order of the Phoenix. They would be secret no longer. The Headmaster had judged the time had come to share information with his most important ally.

But Rufus had barely returned to the Ministry with the Death Eaters' bodies, including the corpse of Bellatrix Lestrange. He was tired, and heartsick in the way that seeing the aftermath of Dark magic always made him. He'd be fine with a few minutes' rest, but he could not have that. He had to move, and immediately. And he was morbidly sure that Dumbledore _still_ wouldn't trust him with everything; there would be more secrets to come, and Rufus might only find them out when it was too late.

He sat in a chair towards the right wall, and watched as people filed in. The Weasleys, of course, and a few of his Aurors, including Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody, and, not much to his surprise, Nymphadora Tonks, though she reddened and avoided his eyes. An older wizard he didn't know, but who looked shifty enough that Rufus was tempted to haul him up in front of the Wizengamot on general principles, joined them last of all, and then Dumbledore waved his wand and the door shut with a sucking sound that Rufus knew indicated a powerful locking charm.

"I summoned you here for an important reason," Dumbledore began solemnly. "It seems that two missing members of the Order have surfaced again—together, and with intentions that are not the best." He nodded to the twin Weasleys, and leaned back behind his desk with a sigh.

Rufus gave the twin boys a surprised look. He knew the Death Eater attack had happened in front of their shop. Had they seen Potter and Snape ambushing the Death Eaters? And why was that a bad thing? Surely they must have known that Severus Snape, of all people, would use Dark magic.

"The Death Eaters—" began one boy.

"—showed up just at nine," said the second.

Rufus found himself growing dizzy as he listened to the leaping motion of their conversation, flowing back and forth between them. After a few minutes, he grew used to it, and managed to put the coherent narration together. It helped that their voices were so similar.

"We recognized Bellatrix Lestrange at once, from all the descriptions we've heard of her. So we remained in the shop and watched through the windows. We thought our wards could stand up even to the likes of _her._

"But she didn't even try to attack. She just froze, and then she started screaming. And then someone started casting curses at the Death Eaters with her. One of them put up a bit of resistance, but he was decapitated. And all the time, Lestrange was screaming."

The twins paused then, and swallowed as though their throats were dry. Rufus wondered what was coming next. Perhaps Snape had used some particularly awful curse.

"And then—we saw her die. And then Professor Snape revealed himself, and went towards someone on the side of the shop. He'd been hiding, and even then he only showed his head, but we saw him clearly." The twins paused again, and Rufus didn't think they were doing it for effect; the news they had to announce was so momentous that the pause was an instinct.

"It was Harry."

* * *

Harry wanted nothing more than to retreat to his bedroom in Bolthole, lay his head on the pillow, and sleep. 

But it seemed Snape didn't have the same idea, or perhaps he was concerned that Harry might do something stupid like _cry_ himself to sleep. He made Harry remain in the kitchen, and made a cup of tea himself, without summoning the house-elf. Harry looked around the kitchen in silence while that happened. It was much larger than the Dursleys', and even magnificent in a way, though the cupboards managed to look just as gloomy and solemn as the Potions stores cupboards in Snape's office ever had.

"Drink this."

Harry accepted the cup, and sipped from it. He couldn't taste any unusual flavors in the tea, but then, Snape could probably poison him undetectably if he wanted to. And, sure enough, a moment later an unusual feeling took him over: soft and floating, as though his shock had turned to contentment.

"What is this, sir?" Harry asked, with a tongue that felt clumsy.

"A potion that will calm you enough to talk," Snape answered, standing across from him and watching him intently. "It will not cloud your perceptions, and, ultimately, it cannot help you sort out your memories and tell you what to think about your actions. You must do that for yourself."

"I don't really want to think about them," Harry said, honestly, and took another sip of the tea. Unfortunately, the floating feeling didn't increase.

"You must," said Snape. His voice was neutral. Harry didn't think he'd ever heard it like that before. Even when he was trying to teach something, when it would probably benefit him to remain neutral, Harry thought Snape was incapable of it. He had contempt for anyone but students who got what he was trying to teach right on the first try. "This is another part of not hiding from yourself, Potter. You must move past denial, which is the refuge of the coward and the fool. _Think_ about it. You told me you felt it was needless. Why?"

Harry hesitated, then put the cup of tea down on the counter next to him. He didn't want it to fall and shatter if his hand began to shake. "What you said about murder, sir," he said. "Even if it's true—does _anyone_ deserve to be just a murder victim to me? Just a sacrifice? I think I can confine my murderous impulses to Bellatrix and Voldemort alone, but what if I can't?"

Snape's eyes were calm and confident and unfathomable, rather like the eyes of the Sphinx Harry had met in the maze in the fourth year. "Rest assured, Potter," he said. "If you become only a killer, I will kill you myself."

Relief washed through Harry, loosening the tight knot in his chest. "You do mean that?"

"Yes." Snape shifted his shoulders, as if he were accepting a burden. "And, unlike your friends or the Headmaster, I shall not make excuses for you, and try to imagine you as better than you are. I can draw my wand on you without the slightest remorse. You know that."

"I do," Harry whispered. He picked up and sipped his tea again. He knew, on some level, that he _shouldn't_ have been so very reassured by this, any more than he should have found Snape's scorn of his suicidal impulses the path to healing from his grief for Sirius. But, both times, Snape's cure had worked. Maybe what he really did need was just less _coddling._

Or maybe Snape saw a strength in him that no one else could, and knew he could bear with harsher treatment than he'd received. There was that possibility, too—not that Harry thought Snape would ever admit it aloud even if it were true.

"Now," Snape said, "this does not help you to face your demons. Describe to me what you did to Bellatrix."

* * *

A babble of voices broke out at once. Rufus shut his eyes, but could still hear people exclaiming that Harry must have learned about the attack and been there to stop it, or that he would never have helped Snape, or that it must have been someone who _looked_ like Harry, because he wouldn't have left his training. 

Rufus knew it had been Potter, and he wondered, he did _wonder_, just what Snape had been teaching the boy.

Dumbledore's voice outsoared the babble. "Describe the rest of what you saw to us, please, Fred and George."

Once again, the two separate voices mingled into a single narrative in Rufus's weary mind. "Snape came and knelt down in front of Harry—spoke to him. Harry said that he 'tormented her when he didn't need to.' Snape reassured him with some nonsense about everyone needing to kill once in hot blood. Then they Apparated together. It looked like Harry went with him willingly."

"The git's got him under Imperius—" said a voice that Rufus recognized as belonging to Ron Weasley.

"Harry can throw off Imperius, Ron, you know that," said Hermione Granger's voice. Rufus hadn't seen her come in, but when he looked, she sat next to the Weasley boy, her hand in his, her face deathly pale.

"But Harry would never _help_ him!" Ron had sprung to his feet and was shouting, his own face red. "And he'd never torture someone! Harry's not like that!"

Dumbledore spoke before Granger could, his voice soft and soothing, but no less a command. "We do not know what happened. Remember that Professor Snape is likely to have killed the other Death Eaters. What Fred and George described is powerful Dark magic, the kind of spell he would know."

"But what about what Snape said?" That was Kingsley, his eyes so wide that Rufus thought they were about to roll out of his head. "That he tormented 'her'? Was Potter really responsible for Lestrange's death?"

Dumbledore held up a hand and shook his head. "We cannot _know_," he said. "The whole thing could have been Professor Snape's doing, and that would prove that he is still fighting for our side. He was increasingly—erratic in his treatment of Harry during the last months they were both at the school. He may have wished Harry to think and believe that he was responsible for Bellatrix Lestrange's death. There are potions, if not spells, that can compel such obedience." He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "He did try to use a suggestion potion on Harry about a month before their disappearances."

Granger nodded emphatically.

"So he wants to make Harry look bad!" Ron Weasley seized on that explanation.

"That could be it," Dumbledore acknowledged quietly. "The major problem is that we simply do not _know_."

"Why haven't you tried to get Harry back from Snape if he has him, Headmaster?" That was the Weasley matriarch, leaning forwards. "I don't doubt that Severus is loyal to our goal in his—in his own way, but surely his home isn't the best place for the boy."

Rufus turned his eyes to Dumbledore in interest. _He let them believe that he had complete control over Harry's training. What is he going to tell them now?_

Apparently, Dumbledore chose the truth. Perhaps it was wisdom, perhaps simply the knowledge that he couldn't lie much longer, Rufus thought. "The truth is that Severus apparently took Harry to an unknown location when he fled," the Headmaster said. "All my efforts to locate them both have proven futile."

The Order began to exclaim again, but it was an even shorter time before Dumbledore seized control of the conversation. "I realize that this situation is serious," he said. "Trust me, we will make every effort to trace them and reclaim Harry before—" He checked himself, as if he did not want to speak a word that would implicate Potter in the Dark magic Snape had used. "We will reclaim him. I agree that Severus does not make the best teacher for him, and whatever he learned under him, Harry can learn equally well, and faster, under better teachers."

"I'd be happy to train him," Moody growled, his magical eye revolving through his skull. "Never did trust Snape, the bastard."

Granger looked up, and said, in a pause between one speaker and the next, "Headmaster, what will happen if Harry's really—I mean, I know he'd never do it willingly, but he could be tricked into it—I mean, what if he's going Dark? What then?" Her eyes were wet with tears, and Rufus could almost trace the progress of her thoughts. She knew, having read the will, that Potter hadn't been sane when Snape abducted him. Her strong-willed friend might not be in danger from the temptations of the Dark Arts, but her mentally weakened friend could be.

Dumbledore hesitated long enough that a tense, listening silence filled the office, and everyone in it leaned forwards.

* * *

Severus kept his eyes locked on Potter's as the boy fed him, piece by piece, the tale of his battle with Bellatrix Lestrange. And, as he went on, Potter's voice steadied, even as the potion wore off somewhat and his expression became horrified. When he finished, he almost did not seem to notice that he had, standing with his eyes fastened on the far wall, deep in thought. 

"Your technique was admirable," Severus said at last, verbalizing what he truly felt.

Potter started and looked back at him. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"And what about the other things you must confront?" Severus leaned forwards. The boy's answer would determine whether his training in logic or his training in Legilimency would be more intense over the next few weeks. "What about your moral standards? Do you consider yourself a monster?"

"I think I _could_ be," Potter said, after a moment's grave silence.

Severus shook his head slightly. "Not good enough. Everyone _could_ be, in the right circumstances—just as the Dark Lord might have been a creature of sweetness and light in a far brighter home. Not everyone will make the decisions that you have. What do you think of yourself? What will you do when the war finishes, and you see your friends again? Can you tell them that you were responsible for Bellatrix Lestrange's death?"

Potter's face paled. Then he straightened his shoulders and said, "I don't have any choice, do I?"

Severus pursed his lips. "You do. You could lie, or soften it." _Merlin knows I did that often enough in my reports to Albus about my activities among the Death Eaters._

"But it would be a lie."

"That need not matter."

"I meant—" Potter crossed his forearms in front of his face and stared at the ground for a moment. Severus let him be. The boy still had trouble finding words for his thoughts. He would never be eloquent, probably, or at least it would take more training than Severus had the time to give him right now.

"I didn't mean that I _had_ to be honest, or else," Potter finally said, in a voice as soft as a shadow. "I meant that if I lied, if I let myself hide that way, I don't think I could face up to anything else, either. The world inside my head and the world outside my head have to match. If I accept lying to my friends, I accept lying to myself, too." He looked up at Snape and shook his head slightly. "If I could keep them separate, I would, but I can't."

Severus stood still a moment. He wanted to let the silence linger long enough to impress the boy, but not long enough to intimidate him.

"Congratulations, Mr. Potter," he said at last. "You have achieved something that many people never do."

"Being honest?" Harry looked no more than mildly interested, though Severus could guess the emotions churning just under the surface of his Occlumency shields.

"No," Severus said, with a slight shake of his head. "A realistic assessment of your strengths and weaknesses, and a plan to cope with them both. That is—rare. So incredibly rare that it deserves congratulations." He put out his own hand.

After a moment, Harry shook it.

* * *

"If he is going Dark," Dumbledore said at last, "that is all the more reason for us to help him. We will teach him morals as well as spells, if need be, Miss Granger." He smiled, and Rufus felt the strength of that smile touch him, distantly, like sunlight. Dumbledore was pouring all the considerable strength of his magic into reassuring the people around him. "No one has gone so far towards the Dark that they may not be reclaimed, unless they have the years and years of degradation and depravity that Voldemort has sunk himself in." 

Granger nodded, and even managed a small smile. Rufus could see her fears were only soothed, though, not defeated.

He, himself, had much to think about, even after Dumbledore outlined a plan to the Order to try and find Snape and Potter. He wondered if he had been wrong to trust Snape. He remembered the dark shadows in Potter's eyes, and the calm, confident bargain the boy had made with him in Hogsmeade.

Someone like that _could_ be capable of going Dark. Or, rather, if there was even a possibility of his going Dark, it had to be taken seriously, because of how dangerous he would be if he did make that transformation.

Then, when Dumbledore dismissed the Order, Rufus had another ethical dilemma to face.

_Do I warn Snape that the Headmaster is hunting him, or not? His killing of Death Eaters does suggest he still shares our side, at least. But he may not do it for the right reasons. _

_And whatever he—or Potter—may have done to make Lestrange scream like that…_

_There are some things that simply cannot be condoned, even in the name of war._

Rufus went back to his office, to pace, and think, and worry, until the small hours of the morning.

And, not incidentally, to await the results of the examination he had ordered on Lestrange, to find out how she died.

He had waited perhaps two hours when a frantic pounding sounded on the door of his office. Rufus wrenched it open, expecting some horrific news about Lestrange's death.

Instead, Tonks stood there, still in the same robes and with the same face she had worn to the Order meeting. "Sir," she said faintly. "Azkaban's been attacked, and every Death Eater imprisoned there is gone."

* * *

Harry lay on his bed and breathed slowly, normally. Snape had offered him a sleeping potion, but Harry had refused it. If vomiting or bad dreams came to seek him in the night, he wanted to be ready to face them. 

He turned the memories and the thoughts he'd confessed to Snape over and over in his mind, looking for weaknesses, looking for signs that he misunderstood what he'd done and had to correct it. He couldn't see any, though.

He had done a horrible thing.

He had done a thing that many people would not do.

He had let the torture go on for too long.

He would kill Bellatrix again if he had to, though this time he would choose less pain.

Harry blinked when he confronted the last revelation he'd drawn forth from the depths of his mind.

He had done something that might lose him his friends. Even more than the sheer fact of killing Bellatrix—a woman he thought neither Hermione nor any of the Weasleys would mourn—there was the torture, and the fact that he'd put Fred and George's lives in danger. He would have to tell them everything, when the moment came to tell.

But he would still kill Bellatrix again if he had to. And Snape was right. Only an ambush could have taken her, and the only target that Bellatrix would have considered convincing was Harry's friends. Harry supposed he _could_ have tried to lure her to him, too, but he couldn't risk compromising Bolthole, and a dream with him randomly appearing in the middle of the country would have seemed more suspicious to Bellatrix than his friends appearing in a shop they were known to own.

_Or so I tell myself. Wouldn't risking myself have been better?_

_Not unless—_

Harry swallowed.

_Not unless someone else can actually kill Voldemort._

It was the first time that he'd consciously decided his life was more important than someone else's. He'd fought for it, of course, but he'd also fought for other people, without much self-preservation instinct. And, just a month ago, he'd been perfectly ready to die for Sirius's sake.

So. There was the reality. Harry stared it in the face, and he didn't like it much, because it was so ugly, but he kept on staring. He was going to do whatever was necessary in Legilimency to kill Voldemort. He would avoid torture, but then, he didn't think he'd have to use it. If he _did—_

He could use it. He'd proved that today.

Harry took a deep breath, and closed his eyes at last.

* * *

Severus studied the boy in silence from the doorway, and nodded as he heard Potter's breaths even out in sleep. 

The boy was very far from all right.

But he would not break, and being that strong was better than being all right.


	38. Among the Ruins

Thanks for the reviews yesterday! As for the questions involved (mostly about Rufus's ethical stance), some of them are answered in this chapter.

_Chapter 38—Among the Ruins_

_There are some things that simply cannot be condoned, even in the name of war._

And what Rufus saw among the ruins of Azkaban was one of them.

From the confused explanations of the few surviving guards who had been on the shore when the attack happened, the raid had involved Death Eaters appearing _and_ the Dementors turning on the prisoners who weren't Death Eaters. There were certainly no Dementors here now, though the mist rolling through the air gave the impression that they had not gone far.

Rufus stooped over a tall, pale wizard he vaguely remembered as going before the Wizengamot some years ago, for a murder. He still breathed, but that was all. His eyes didn't move, the way they would in sleep. His limbs didn't twitch, as they might if he were dreaming. He'd been Kissed, and he was less than a vegetable. There was no chance that he would ever wake.

Rufus shook his head and stood, glancing swiftly around. Shattered walls loomed about him; the ground was scattered with rubble. Everywhere lay the non-corpses of those who would never rise again. No one who watched, Auror or not, spoke. Rufus had never seen so many faces gray with emotion.

If it had not been for those Kissed, who lingered between death and life, Rufus's overpowering sensation would have been relief.

Every wizarding politician in the last hundred years, from the Minister on down, who had tried to act against Azkaban, or even recommend some way of ameliorating the system of punishment for the prisoners, had been stripped of office or sacked almost at once. The victims of heinous crimes deserved to know that the criminals were suffering, went the argument. No one had ever explained to Rufus how much pain was permissible in return for what they had done. Was fifty years enough payment for a murder? Sixty years? A hundred? Who made the determination, and how?

He had been forced to ignore Azkaban, because if he didn't, he risked being thrown out of office and losing what power he had to address other injustices. But now it was gone, and no power in the wizarding world would convince him to bring it back. It had been little more than a system of torture.

And torture, for him, was not permissible even in the name of war. It never could be. If killing must be done, let it be swift, in self-defense or for the purposes of mercy. Killing was not always avoidable, but consciously making another human being suffer for hours always was. The government that developed techniques of torture and sanctioned them for use on its enemies could too easily turn around and apply them to its own citizens when the war was done. Rufus was too experienced a politician and observer of the world to believe that the mindsets of people acclimated to torture rapidly changed with peace.

The Dark curses used on the Death Eaters Snape had slain were swift. They still inflicted an amount of pain Rufus considered unacceptable, but they were _done_. He did not yet know if the same thing had happened to Bellatrix Lestrange, or if she had been made to suffer before she perished.

If she had suffered…

Rufus half-narrowed his eyes. _As Dumbledore said, our greatest problem with this scenario is a lack of knowledge. We have no way of knowing if she was tortured—yet—or what did it, or even whether it was Snape or Potter who performed the torture. And even if I had proof absolute, I have no idea where they are. That means that I can't yet reject Snape and Potter out of hand._

_So. A letter in the middle, then._

"Sir?" said Tonks at last, speaking from what sounded like a dry throat. "What do you want done with them?"

In silence, Rufus drew his wand.

Tonks nodded, and drew her own. They wouldn't have to do much to the people who were Kissed—certainly not cast an Unforgivable. A simple cutting spell would open a vein, and they would bleed to death simply and painlessly.

Rufus did his best not to imagine what these people had been thinking and feeling in the moments before they were Kissed; he couldn't be certain of any of it. He wanted to imagine that they would be grateful for what he and the other Aurors did now, but he had no way of determining that, either.

_And I can't be certain what happened with Snape and Potter. I am planning to find out, however._

* * *

Severus was training with Potter in the means of reaching a wizard's mental core quickly and efficiently when the owl arrived. The tiny hole he had left open in the wards for owls coming from the Minister usually warned him when the first tap sounded at the window, but in this case, he had been deeply involved in dodging Potter, and had not noticed.

He started when the owl landed on his shoulder, and he saw Potter raise his wand towards the bird. He shook his head with a quick scowl. After one searching glance, Potter dropped his hand.

The searching glance pleased Severus. Potter still listened to him, and trusted him as much as was reasonable, but he also gave due consideration to his trust, and wondered, now and then, whether it was the wisest thing to let guide his actions.

Severus removed the letter from the owl's leg and read it in silence. It was blunt, as though Scrimgeour had no patience for even politeness, let alone coy and discreet mind games.

_Severus Snape:_

_I have no explanation for what happened in your ambush of Bellatrix Lestrange. I want reassurance before I continue to act as an ally. I demand that Potter write to me, and give me his own explanation of it, or I shall assume that you tortured her—my forensics specialist says that there is literally nothing of Lestrange's brain left, and informs me that only very painful Legilimency could have killed her like that—and that you intend to train Potter in torture. That, I cannot allow. _

_In return for Potter's letter, I will inform you of this: the Weasley twins saw everything that could be seen with the eye, and they have given a report to the Headmaster that has all but turned the Order of the Phoenix against you._

_Rufus Scrimgeour._

Severus raised one eyebrow. Well, he had anticipated this. He had not expected it to happen quite so soon, true, but there was a _reason_ he had insisted that Potter be strong enough in his own mind to face the consequences of his actions, and logically clear about what he was doing. And he could read Scrimgeour's last sentences well enough: Dumbledore would be hunting him, and he could not really hope to avoid the Headmaster's magic forever. At best, when he appeared with Potter to kill the Dark Lord, he could expect to be taken prisoner.

He did not want that. He wanted glory and credit for his actions, and he intended to receive them.

"Sir?"

He glanced up. The expression on Potter's face was somewhere between curiosity and awe at his own daring. He wanted answers, but fully expected to be denied them. Severus approved. _He will someday be formidable compared even to me—if he lives—but that time has not yet come._

"You may read the letter, since the Minister made a request concerning you," he said quietly, and held the parchment out.

Potter took and read it. His face drained of color, as Severus had expected, but his hands didn't tremble, and he remained on his feet. Better, far better, than he would have done two months ago. Severus waited.

Potter glanced up. "If I write him the letter, won't he just—give it to Dumbledore? So telling him won't make any difference. I could remain silent, and he'd react the same way."

Severus shook his head. The boy had missed some nuance in the letter, of course. _Typical. _"Scrimgeour does not say he will give your letter to Dumbledore. He will assume the worst from your silence, and he warns us of the Order's suspicions. He is not completely allied with them, nor yet with us. I think that, if your letter satisfies him, he will return to his original bargain, sending us information and saying nothing of what he knows to Dumbledore."

"But he said that he won't allow you to train me in torture," said Potter quietly. "And that's what's happening."

Severus snorted. Harry stared at him.

"Did that, or did that not, happen only once?" Severus demanded. "Will you, or will you not, kill the Dark Lord in cold blood, inflicting no more pain on him than necessary in order to reach the center of his mind?" He dropped his voice. "You disappoint me, Mr. Potter. You will pause to take revenge on the Dark Lord instead of slaying him, then?"

Harry's right hand slowly closed into a fist. Then he said, "No. I'll write the letter."

Severus nodded. "You will show it to me before you send it."

"Of _course_," Harry said, with a faint offended tone to his voice, and then walked into his bedroom to settle himself with ink and parchment.

Severus went to attend to his brewing. It would probably take the boy a good half-hour at least to decide what he wanted to say, never mind setting quill to paper.

* * *

Harry drew several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down enough that he could begin to write. Images of being dragged back in front of Dumbledore before he managed to perfect his Legilimency danced wildly through his head. He'd have to use some other kind of magic as a weapon against Voldemort. He'd be told that what he had done was evil, and wrong, and that it didn't matter that he'd live with it. All the effort he'd put into learning, and recovering from his obsession with suicide, and tricking his friends, and brewing the Medea's Draught, would mean nothing.

His killing of Bellatrix would mean nothing. His friends' horror at what he'd done wouldn't bring her back. And if the only possible meaning of her death was to teach him self-control, as Snape insisted…

He couldn't let that happen.

He shoved the images away from himself violently. He had a chance to prevent that from happening. He _would._ He would take it, and show the Minister what had really happened. Snape wasn't teaching him torture, and Harry wasn't about to become some kind of monster who tortured everyone around him. He just had to prove that.

_Dear Minister Scrimgeour: _

_This is Harry Potter. I know you probably don't believe me, so I will say that I met you in Hogsmeade on Halloween, and that I told you I'd support the Ministry in exchange for your trying to clear Sirius's name and letting me slip past the edges of the law sometimes. You forbade me to take that as a license to cast Unforgivables._

_I might have done something as wrong as casting an Unforgivable. You'll have to decide for yourself._

_Snape has taught me Legilimency, because my wand and Voldemort's are brothers, and I can't fight him that way. He saved my life when I tried to kill myself, and convinced me that it was much better to kill my enemy and still survive after he died. He's done nothing but what he needed to do. I was the one who lost control when I confronted Bellatrix Lestrange. Snape had determined that I had to test my skills and kill a Legilimens before I went after Voldemort. He didn't tell me to kill her the way I did._

_She was the one who murdered my godfather last year. That was the main reason I reacted as violently to her as I did. I tore her mind, and I enjoyed it at the time. Now, afterwards, I know it was wrong. It physically sickened me. I won't let it happen again. In fact, the only other person I ever intend to kill with Legilimency is Voldemort, and it would be the height of stupidity for me to play about in his mind under the insane idea of making him 'pay' by hurting him._

_I know I have no way of proving to you that I mean what I say, except by my actions in the future. If I hurt someone else because you trusted me, then I'll accept Azkaban or execution. But Professor Snape has already promised me that he would prevent me from turning into a monster. I believe him._

_I know you have no way of knowing for certain that I wrote this letter, either. It's the hardest letter I've ever written. But I'll leave that up to your judgment. There's no excuse I can make. I can only explain._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter._

He read it over once or twice, corrected some of the more obvious blotted words, and then took it to Snape.

* * *

Severus read the letter with a practiced eye. He could see nothing to object to in it, though his eyebrows rose at the news of the boy's political machinations with the Minister in Hogsmeade. It was good news, though. If Scrimgeour had been willing to make secret bargains and trifle with the rules once, there was an excellent chance it would happen again.

And, of course, he also appreciated Potter's attempts to make sure that no blame pursued _him_. At times, Gryffindor self-sacrificing heroics could serve a purpose—namely, when a Slytherin could benefit from them.

"I will send this," he said, lowering the letter to stare into Potter's eyes. The Occlumency shields shimmered at him, and a casual but unanticipated probe revealed no weaknesses. Severus nodded. "And then we must step up our training and work on infuriating the Dark Lord, or persuading him, or manipulating his dreams, until we can bring the battle to him. And we must bring that battle in a place we will inform Scrimgeour and other witnesses of beforehand."

Potter blinked. "Why?"

"I do not fancy Azkaban for myself, as some people would if they thought I had kidnapped the Boy-Who-Lived," Severus said dryly. "And there are some who would put you down as a mad dog, too, if you simply defeated the Dark Lord in the night and they never knew anything of it but the method. No, Potter, this will be as public as possible, a spectacle. We will look like heroes. We will reap so much of the public's adoration, at once adding to your legend and securing some honor to my name, that the Ministry and Dumbledore will have much more trouble punishing us."

Potter blinked. Severus sneered, but it was half-hearted. Incredible though it was, ht had accepted, after numerous trips into the boy's mind and hearing him talk under Veritaserum, that Potter really had never thought of trading on his fame that way. _Well, now he must._

As it turned out, however, Potter's question was about something else. "The Minister and Dumbledore are both influential," he pointed out. "Will even killing Voldemort really be enough to protect us?"

Severus laughed softly. "There are no certainties, Potter, but you have not seen enough of the hatred and fear that Voldemort's very _shadow_ provokes. You did not witness the celebrations that took place after you first defeated him, when his death was regarded as a miracle. Kill him permanently, after a second rising, and with no chance of a third? Glory will follow his killers—glory and love. It is the best shield we can have against the kind of pretty moral knots that Scrimgeour and Dumbledore will try to tie about us. Yes, we will try for it."

Harry nodded, and Severus turned to post the letter with the owl, who had waited patiently in the kitchen. After that, he fully intended to come back and drill Potter until they both dropped.

And then they must begin reaching out to the Dark Lord.

_I will have it—life, glory, honor, power, and freedom. The Headmaster will not deprive me of it. Nor will Scrimgeour._

_And though Potter may not think to use his childhood as a weapon against the old wizard, I am _more_ than willing._

* * *

Rufus read Potter's letter. Then again. Then a third time. He had already verified with several Magical Law Enforcement wizards who regularly worked with forged documents that the same hand had _definitely_ not produced this letter that had produced the ones he received from Snape.

That didn't mean Potter had written it, of course.

But Rufus chose to accept that he had. If he were mistaken, the consequences would be on _his_ head. He would hunt Potter down, and he would certainly resign his office.

And it threw the decision on his shoulders once more.

Potter losing control would explain everything, from Lestrange's pained screams to the line the Weasley twins had heard him speak to Snape. No, it might not be right, but Rufus had better knowledge of both Potter's character and the actual situation right now than anyone but the pair who had hunted the Death Eaters.

He weighed his remembrance of Potter, the shadows in his eyes, and the way he had spoken at Hogsmeade against what the Weasleys had reported.

In the end, he chose to sit down and write a letter to Potter and Snape that included the information about the breakout at Azkaban, and more concrete information on what Dumbledore had told the Order of the Phoenix.

In the end, he chose to trust that, if Potter had done something not permissible even in the name of war, he would not do it again.


	39. The Harder Sacrifices

Thanks for the reviews, once more! Just as a warning, the story deepens and darkens from here on out. On the other hand, it's not far from its end (probably it will end on Chapter 50 or 51).

_Chapter 39—The Harder Sacrifices_

"You are certain that you wish to do this, Potter?"

"Can you think of any other way?" Potter's voice had become more tired in the last few days, but also stronger, as if his weariness were stripping him down to the essential core of iron that had allowed him to survive his encounters with the Dark Lord so far. Severus had looked at him critically time and time again, but so far had felt unable to actually mandate sleeping potions or a pause of some days. Really, this was the level the boy should have been training at all along. If he had, then the Dark Lord might have been defeated his first year at Hogwarts.

Of course, leaving Potter with his Muggle relatives had been stupid for other reasons. But Severus could not shake the idea forcing its way into his mind that the _true_ reason it was so stupid was that Potter had spent so much time away from the magical world and hadn't cast even the simplest spell until he was eleven years old. Being raised around his destiny would have accustomed him to the idea of it, prevented him from forming wild and desperate plans like the one that had nearly killed him, and would not have resulted in a swollen head if the appropriate person had taught him. Dumbledore should have done it himself, but Severus would have taken on the task if it were demanded of him. It would have been no worse, he sometimes thought, than teaching class after class of dunderheads for a decade.

"I cannot," Severus said, realizing the boy was waiting for him to respond. "So. Lie on your bed, and reach out to—_him_." He still could not quite believe that he was encouraging the boy to touch the Dark Lord's mind, but this was what they had planned and prepared for.

Harry nodded, and went into his own bedroom. Severus went to fetch the healing potions he might need. There were very few cases of a Legilimens being able to inflict physical wounds on an enemy from this great a distance, but the bond the Dark Lord and Harry shared was so odd that it was best to be prepared.

* * *

Harry told himself over and over again that there was no reason to be afraid. He and Professor Snape had _planned_ this, hadn't they? He only had to drop the Occlumency barriers in his mind, and Voldemort would sense it and come charging through. He might be suspicious, of course; Snape had told him that. But he wouldn't be able to resist such a tempting target. And with Harry's shields gone, he might think he could strike and free himself again before Harry stopped him.

Both Harry and Snape knew Voldemort's temper, though, and his delight in savoring the last dying struggles of an enemy. It was the same delight that had made him give Harry his wand back in the graveyard at Little Hangleton. Once he came into what would seem a helpless and unprotected mind on the surface, Voldemort could well find it difficult to leave again.

So Harry was hesitating over this decision for no good reason.

He simply had to do it and get it over with—rather like the moment on the Astronomy Tower when he had swallowed the Medea's Draught. He and Snape had discussed the possibility of sending dreams to Voldemort, true, but after feeling the first probe of one of Dumbledore's tracking spells against the wards of Bolthole yesterday, Snape had decided they did not have time.

So this was it, then.

With a nervous breath that Harry sincerely hoped he was the only one to notice, he removed the barriers from the link between Voldemort and him.

* * *

Severus took a seat in the chair next to Potter's bed, where he'd sat so often while feeding the boy the potions that had kept him alive. He had cast a silencing charm on his movements, to muffle them. He absolutely could not risk disturbing the boy's concentration.

Potter breathed through his slightly open mouth, his hands clenched into fists on the bed. Then his head lolled to the side, and Severus guessed he had removed the barriers. In a moment of such complete vulnerability, the body of an Occlumens often mimicked the defenseless state of his mind.

And then Potter's mouth opened in a soundless scream, and his face drained of all color.

Severus leaned forward. _He's made contact._

* * *

Voldemort had noticed.

And he had come at once.

He filled Harry's mind like a cloud of dust and shadow. Harry trembled, and didn't know if his physical body was shaking, too, and didn't care. What mattered was that he had Voldemort in his mind, and he wanted him _out_. The shields he had learned were second nature now. He wasn't comfortable with even Snape walking his mind in those rare times when Harry gave him permission to do so. The privacy of his thoughts was truly his own now, and he guarded it fiercely. He'd had so little that was really _his_ in his lifetime. Thie _mattered._

And now he had to let Voldemort violate that.

More than that, he had to continue doing it for as long as was necessary to make Voldemort think he was completely helpless.

Harry uttered a scream now, and fell away from the invading presence, diving to hide at the bottom of his mind. He didn't have to feign his fear and horror. They were everywhere around him. He didn't think he would have been human if he didn't feel them. The only tricky part was whether Voldemort would take horror and fear for weakness, or not.

_He has to. We worked so hard on this. There's not a chance if it doesn't work. I let him have access to my mind for nothing—_

Harry calmed his panic with an abrupt snap. He was allowed to be afraid all he liked; Snape had encouraged that, in fact. But he was _not_ allowed to start thinking such irrational things. What Voldemort did had nothing to do with how hard they'd worked, unless that hard work paid off in making Harry's weakness look more convincing. One of the harder, but better, things Snape had taught him was to stop expecting fairness from the universe.

He continued diving, and he felt Voldemort hovering above him, studying the confines of his thoughts.

And then Voldemort came after him.

Harry forced down his joy, making it fall away beneath him like a lead weight. He had to lead Voldemort down and down, making it seem as if the strain of protecting his mind was too much and he'd simply given up, too tired and too weakened to even use his natural defenses anymore. He had to let Voldemort hurt him, until the moment came when Voldemort was too far in to turn back.

And then he would turn and strike hard.

Voldemort laughed above him. Harry heard the sound multiplied as though in a cave or an echo chamber, and braced himself for the pain as best he could.

When it began, it was almost transcendent.

* * *

Severus watched as the boy's back arched. A moment later, Potter's scream split the air. But it was a thin, high sound, more like the whining of a dog terrified to the point of urination than any noise a human being might make. If Severus had closed his eyes and stood at a distance, listening, he knew he wouldn't have been able to tell what—or who—it was.

He sat quietly, and watched.

He knew he was the best person to be with the boy now, whatever nonsense Dumbledore might think about "rescuing" him and bringing him back to his friends—almost certain to be former friends now, when they found out what Potter had done to Bellatrix. They would have tried to interfere, unable to bear him screaming like that, and interference would have been disastrous.

Severus waited, with the healing potions, and poised for the moment when he could do the most good: when Potter woke. All the while, his iron patience tempered him, and his awareness that he had seen worse things than this before.

* * *

Harry was losing his mind to the agony.

Quite literally, he knew. Snape had warned him about what would happen to him when Voldemort began to rip at his thoughts. He stood the chance of losing certain memories forever. He might drop into a sea of pain from which there was no escape, given misfiring nerves. He might never walk again—not because of any physical cause, but because Voldemort could damage the pathways that would let the commands travel down to his legs. Voldemort had done all that and worse to his prisoners, people who had no natural defenses to their minds. It took enormous power even for a Legilimens, Snape had explained, which was one reason he had never tried to teach those tactics to Harry when there were more important things to be learned, but the Dark Lord had studied Legilimency for decades.

And now Harry had to fall, and just take the pain.

He felt that Voldemort was attacking one specific part of his mind, but in his freefall, he couldn't tell what it was. He only knew it hurt.

He whimpered pathetically as Voldemort scratched and tore one more time at that vulnerable part. Then his enemy was following him, eager to reach the central core of Harry's mind and change his identity. If he were smart, he would simply have killed him, but Harry could read his intentions, and knew that Voldemort—of course—pursued the more painful and ultimately more wasteful course.

Triumph struck through his anguish and moderated it.

_We were right. It's paying off._

He gathered himself, winding in all his power, retracting his attention from maintaining the façade of helpless compliance.

_Almost there. Almost—_

And then Voldemort ventured within Harry's reach.

Every bit of Harry's strength lashed up and around Voldemort like strangling vines.

* * *

Severus knew the moment when the boy trapped the Dark Lord. His scream went silent, but he froze in the odd position he'd taken, body twisted as if he'd been cast against a wall and then thrown back down paralyzed. Then his scar burst in a spray of blood that actually traveled far enough to fleck Severus's face, and when he cried out, it was with the Dark Lord's wordless snarl, not his own.

Severus did not speak aloud. That could have disturbed the boy. But he murmured praise and encouragement in his mind, and that eased his impatience and made him feel like he was doing something worthwhile.

_That's it, Potter. Merlin knows that even now I thought you might not have the strength, but you did. You are doing wonderfully. _

* * *

Voldemort screamed and struggled in what was more indignation than pain at first. Harry ignored that. He didn't have to hold the mighty Legilimens for long. He only had to _impress_ him.

He envisioned his power sinking into Voldemort like the vines he'd already used for a visualization of the trap, cutting, binding, carving rope weals into the surface of his mind, and then _beneath_ it. He didn't try to take away Voldemort's impulse to hurt him, or even to hurt Muggles. All of those would have involved essential surgery to Voldemort's personality, and more power and time than Harry had. Instead, he bound Voldemort, simply and fiercely but as irresistibly as if this were a new law of nature just for him, to stay in his present stronghold for the next week.

As he did that, thoughts of the present stronghold naturally drifted to the surface of Voldemort's mind, as Snape had said they would. Harry memorized the high ridge covered with heather, the glade at the foot where the Death Eaters had their camp, and the caves in the bank beyond the glade, where Voldemort brought his prisoners to be tortured and amused himself with his latest pleasure, having his werewolf Fenrir Greyback tear Muggles to pieces while still in human form and eat them alive. Harry didn't know where this place was, but the chance was strong that Snape would.

Then Voldemort broke from him, roaring.

Harry _pushed_, and the natural defenses and the trained ones of his mind snapped into place, shoving Voldemort out of his head. He roared as he went, but he had no choice about it.

And with him, he carried Harry's command.

Harry struck out for the surface of his mind at once. He needed to tell Snape about the stronghold so that Snape could perform his part of the preparation.

* * *

Potter gasped, and opened his eyes. As Severus leaned forward, he was already turning his head and dropping the Occlumency barriers, allowing Severus to glimpse what he had caught from the Dark Lord.

Severus did know the place, one the Dark Lord had used often during the early part of the First War, but not since; it was likely even Dumbledore had forgotten its exact location. He, having been required to Apparate there many times, had not. He looked a few moments longer, just to be sure Potter had been successful and the Dark Lord had left no traps in his mind, and then he leaned back and nodded.

"Get some sleep now, Potter."

The boy barely needed the command; his eyes were already drifting shut, his body and mind alike shutting themselves down in defensive rest against what had happened. Severus remained watching him for a moment, then lowered the wards on Bolthole enough that he could Apparate.

The anti-Apparition spells about the stronghold still remained where they had been—Merlin bless the Dark Lord's predictability—and once he had landed, Severus drew the Invisibility Cloak from one pocket and cast it over his head. A Disillusionment Charm would raise alarms here, but not this much rarer form of magic.

He slipped towards the heather-covered ridge, going stealthily. He didn't have long to wait. Mulciber, whom Severus had watched torture Muggles just the week before he stopped spying on the Dark Lord, came walking towards him, muttering something about sentry duty and how he'd just had it last night and he didn't believe the Order of the Phoenix would risk a massive attack in any case, so soon after the strike at Azkaban.

Severus pulled the Cloak from his head. The look of surprise on Mulciber's face was comic. He didn't even have time to raise his wand before Severus hissed, "_Sectumsempra!"_

Blood carved open Mulciber's chest and throat, and he fell to lie in a pool of it. Severus watched calmly, moving forward only when he was sure the Death Eater had died.

He reached deep within him for the strength he needed, breathing sharply, his eyes fixed on the body. When he could feel the magic rising and snapping at his fingertips like a caged lion, he released it with a hiss.

"_Flamma casta!_"

The fire roared out of his wand, and hit Mulciber so hard that the impact of the heat sent Severus back a step or two. He shielded his face with the Invisibility Cloak, and the spell he'd cast on his eyes hours ago activated, letting him see through the glittering white haze of the flames, more like the sun than anything else. He watched critically as the fire did its work.

Flames hot enough to consume human bones without leaving even ashes were not common, but he had used all his power in that spell for a reason. Within a few minutes, nothing of Mulciber was left.

Severus nodded, swung the Invisibility Cloak around him, and turned to walk back outside the anti-Apparition wards again. He left the other fires his spell had started to burn. It amused him to think of the Dark Lord's servants scrambling to put them out.

He had needed to make sure he could perform that spell. Now he knew he could.

He would make a spectacle out of helping Harry defeat the Dark Lord. No one would ever be allowed to forget it.

* * *

When he reached Bolthole again, tightening the wards absent-mindedly so as to prevent that annoying tracking spell of Dumbledore's from reaching them, he went to look in on Potter. The boy still slept deeply, rolled on one side, his right arm dangling almost to the floor.

Severus watched him without moving. When he looked into the boy's eyes, he had tried to identify not only the Dark Lord's stronghold, but what mental damage that possessing mind had left in Potter's.

The Dark Lord had concentrated on the boy's ability to love, and done his very best to shred in it. In fact, Potter was deeply hurt, his empathy only clinging to the rest of his mind like a strip of flesh dangling from a wound.

If it fell off or was torn further, Severus knew, they could very well have a sociopath on their hands. Potter without emotions would have much less of a sense of right and wrong, and given the powers he had…

Well. In the aftermath of Potter's attack on Bellatrix Lestrange, Severus had already made the promise that he would kill the boy if needed. And he would, though not without regret over the wasted work.

In practical terms, the wound meant that, if Potter did not die fighting the Dark Lord, he was even more likely to fit in badly with his friends. It would heal with time, but since when did impatient Gryffindors understand that?

Severus always looked to the future. It was one thing that separated him from people like James Potter and Sirius Black—from people such as Harry had once been.

He had plans for the future if Potter survived. A close association with the Boy-Who-Lived in the public imagination could do him only good. And privately, Severus still hoped for Potter to speak up for Slytherin House, and to finally accept that talent for brewing poisons, which Severus could also get glory for nurturing. Sometimes Potions masters learned best when training apprentices. Severus would not know, as he'd never trusted anyone enough to let him take that role, but he was willing, as he would not have been with anyone else, to take the chance now.

That would mean defending Potter from the over-anxious ministrations of his friends. Severus was more than willing.

He left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Inside a week, the Dark Lord would be dead.


	40. The Invitation

Thanks for the reviews! This chapter is not the battle, but preparation for it; the battle with Voldemort will take place over the next two.

_Chapter 40—The Invitation_

Rufus stared at the letter in front of him. It had arrived several hours ago, though the only reason he'd been awake to let the tapping owl through the window was his brain's inability to stop whirling and go to sleep lately. And it was, without a doubt, the most infuriating letter he'd ever received in his life, _counting_ the one which his sister had sent him after she'd eloped with a Muggle, changed her mind, and written to Rufus to help her retrieve her belongings and _Obliviate_ the Muggle, since she was notoriously poor at Memory Charms.

Snape's letter was worse.

_February 4th, 1997_

_Severus Snape to the Minister of Magic: _

_Two days from now, the Dark Lord will be defeated. He remains at a Death Eater stronghold used during the First War, a place that you should find in the Ministry records as Redfield. If you cannot find it in time, here is a description that should be suitable for Apparition (keep in mind that this will place you comfortably _outside _the wards the Dark Lord uses to detect such things)._

A precise description of a field with several hollows and a small, frozen pond in it followed, for which Rufus had to give Snape reluctant admiration. He had received many descriptions that were not nearly that complete, and others that depended so heavily on some feature only available in the spring or summer that trying to Apparate there in the winter was dangerous.

_Headmaster Dumbledore also knows of this place; the Order of the Phoenix fought the Death Eaters there more than once. However, the Dark Lord had not used it for years by the time he was so abruptly defeated, and so it is not likely that the Headmaster would have thought of investigating it (or deigned to share the Order's information on it with the Ministry). I am sending a letter to him as well, to cordially invite him, along with you, to see the defeat of the most dangerous Dark wizard of our time, beginning at nine-o'clock in the morning on the sixth of February. _

Rufus closed his eyes and shook his head. That was the infuriating part. Why in the name of Merlin was Snape waiting two days, if he and Potter were ready to defeat the Dark Lord now? And if they still had to make preparations, how could they be sure they'd be ready to defeat him in two days?

_I would not suggest arriving earlier. If you do, the Dark Lord will still be alive, and you must fight him. When you do arrive, there will undoubtedly be a complement of Death Eaters present, but Mr. Potter and I myself will be eliminating the greater threat. We trust you to take care of yourself where Death Eaters are concerned._

That was enraging, too, the assumption that Rufus should recklessly endanger his people fighting You-Know-Who's minions…

Rufus had to admit, though, that most of his Aurors would be pleased to do so, rather than arriving at the site of raids too late to make any difference.

_Entering Redfield and coming close enough to take pleasure in the defeat is up to you, of course. We will not demand such and such a performance from you, or restrict your eyes from widening and your breath from coming fast._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter and Severus Snape._

Rufus cast the letter from him with an irritated grunt. How dare Snape treat the defeat of Britain's greatest enemy, the one who had single-handedly started this war, as if it were a spectacle!

_Because that is exactly what the newspapers will make of it, _said a small, nasty voice in the back of his head, which Rufus would have sworn he didn't have before a few months ago, when he had to become Minister and deal with the problem of Harry Potter at the same time. _Because you always knew that they couldn't remain in hiding forever, and Snape must have known it, too. When they come forth again, Snape will need a good excuse for kidnapping Potter, and Potter will need to show what he could possibly have learned in the past month that made his vanishing worth it. This spectacle is one way to make up for any unacceptable secrecy they've practiced so far and win the hearts of wizards and witches all over Britain. _

And that was probably exactly what would happen.

_If_ Snape's plan went according to plan.

Rufus wasn't at all surprised when an owl arrived from Dumbledore telling him to come to Hogwarts at once. He had only to stand, gather up his own letter, his cloak, and his wand, and leave. He'd been dressed for hours already.

* * *

"_Im_possible, Albus!" Moody's magical eye spun around his head so fast that Rufus half-expected it to go flying out of his skull at any moment and clink and bounce in a corner. "You'll let _Snape_ dictate the time and place at which Voldemort dies? This is insane! What we need to do," and he leaned forward, making his voice soft and calm again in that abrupt way that always frightened the new Auror recruits, "is go there, retrieve young Harry, capture Snape, and ensure that the Death Eaters can't harm us before we leave again. Redfield isn't the place for a final battle, Albus. You know that as well as I do."

Rufus looked at Dumbledore. The old man didn't respond to Moody's words, as he hadn't responded to any of the suggestions the Order of the Phoenix members made since Rufus arrived. He simply looked at the letter in his hand, and his face was carved with lines of sorrow.

Finally, he looked up and said quietly, "I doubt Severus chose Redfield because he thought it would be the best site for a battle, Alastor. Rather, that is likely where Voldemort is now, and Severus and Harry have contrived some way to make sure he stays there until they are ready to fight."

Rufus nodded. It was the conclusion he'd come to as he walked up the long road from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts—long for a wizard with a bad leg, at least. He gently rubbed the ache in his limb and spoke up before Moody could start again. "There is another thing you should know, before you have to guess it."

All eyes turned to him. Rufus cocked his head with a thin smile. Moody and Dumbledore seemed aiming to intimidate him with their close examination, but they were nothing compared to a dozen reporters as hungry for a story as a werewolf for human flesh. "I believe that Potter and Snape intend to kill You-Know-Who with Legilimency. That is a dangerous art, of course, but for the practitioner, it is dangerous mainly because other wizards can hit his body with curses while he's in his enemy's mind. I think Snape means us to deal with the Death Eaters while _they_ deal with You-Know-Who. The Death Eaters will hardly react calmly to seeing their master attacked."

"And how do you know that Harry's going to kill him with Legilimency?" Mrs. Weasley demanded.

"I have been in communication with Severus Snape almost since the night he took Potter away,' said Rufus, and ignored the stunned gasps. He could feel Dumbledore staring as if the sheer power of his eyes could make Rufus turn and meet his gaze head on, but he kept looking calmly at the rest of the Order of the Phoenix. Granger and the youngest Weasley boy had rather pink cheeks, but luckily enough, no one was looking at them. "I have also, lately, been in communication with Potter as well. I've passed them enough information to keep them abreast of what's going on in the political world. They've planned their attack on You-Know-Who in accordance with some of that. And now it is time for us to take _our_ part, and ensure that we bring enough force from among the Aurors and the Order to defeat the Death Eaters." He looked pointedly at Tonks and Shacklebolt, who were part of both those organizations. Tonks blushed, but both of them met his eyes and nodded.

"I can't accept that!" Mrs. Weasley looked horrified. "That would mean putting Harry at risk, and—"

"He's been at risk for years, ma'am, ever since You-Know-Who vanished for the first time," Rufus snapped. He wondered what had most irritated him: the pain in his leg, or the fact that, when they really had only one clear course if they wanted to end this war, people who knew less about the situation than he did continued to argue. "In fact, he could easily have died long before this. When he entered Hogwarts for his first year, for example." He couldn't help turning his head just slightly towards Dumbledore. "Or when he was a child. It's a miracle that no Death Eater ever found his way to the home of Potter's Muggle relatives. If that had happened, all would have been over, because Potter didn't even know about his magic until he received his Hogwarts letter."

He saw the Headmaster go still. Rufus curled his lip slightly. _Yes, let that worry him. Perhaps it will teach him wisdom. _

"Why did you not tell us about being in contact with Severus before, Minister?" Dumbledore asked softly, still in that voice of sorrow.

Rufus didn't mind his sounding sorrowful, just so long as he didn't try to change the plan Rufus had already decided to adopt for himself. "Because you would have pressed me to try and betray them," he said bluntly. "I would not do that. Snape is wary enough. Now he's finally offering to come out and use this training he's supposedly given Potter—something I think he would not do if he weren't _very_ confident—and we sit about wringing our hands?" He pushed, and managed to get to his feet, despite the pain in his leg. "Well, not me."

He turned to face the rest of the Order of the Phoenix. Granger and the Weasley boy looked the most ready to listen, but he saw traces of the same tendency in the other faces, thank Merlin. He wanted more help than just that of his Aurors, though if he _had_ to do it with just them, then he would.

"This is the first chance we've had to play a true part in the war, most of us," he said, his eyes moving from face to face. "Before, we've cowered behind our wards and fought entirely on the defensive when we did manage to venture out into the open. Now we have a chance to make a difference. I won't shirk that chance."

"It is dangerous, Minister," Dumbledore said, in the tone of a philosopher.

Rufus laughed, and glared back at him, though he was still careful not to meet those Legilimency-laden eyes. "It's _war_, Headmaster," he said. "If there's a war that's not dangerous, I'd like to know what it is. That doesn't mean I think we should charge in without preparation, or looking the place over. I think Snape sent these letters two days before the battle, and not the morning of, so that we would have enough time to prepare ourselves." _And not enough time to back out. _Rufus felt a reluctant admiration for Severus Snape. He knew how to manipulate his enemies and even his allies to do what he liked. "I definitely plan to be at Redfield in two mornings, though, and everyone who believes that they should do more than just wait for someone else to finish this war will be with me." He turned and studied the members of the Order. "Well?"

Moody was the first to turn towards him, of course, his magical eye revolving like a globe on a stand and his regular eye shining with a fierce light. "I'm with you, Minister," he said. "I haven't had the chance to destroy a Death Eater in nearly a week. We'll show the bastards how much mercy they can expect from _us._"

Rufus smiled slightly, before he turned and looked at the others. The Weasley twins nodded at him, and Tonks, and Shacklebolt. The rest of the Weasleys looked more reluctant to agree, but slowly they nodded, too. While this might not be the whole Order of the Phoenix, Rufus was more than happy to have their strength to add to his Aurors'. And he knew that some of them had special talents, such as the twins' use of charms, that could make them useful on the battlefield.

"Sir?" Hermione Granger asked. "Can we go, too?" She clutched the Weasley boy's hand tightly, but her free hand was clenched into a fist.

"Of course not!" exclaimed Mrs. Weasley, before Rufus could say anything. "You aren't even legally adults yet!"

Granger's jaw tightened. Rufus knew the look well. It roused very bad memories of the First War, memories he had to concentrate to push away.

"Let them come," Rufus said quietly. "Otherwise, they'll sneak along behind us, and they'll probably end up in the middle of the battle, and disaster will follow." He lifted an eyebrow when Granger flushed fiercely. "That _was_ what you thought of doing, wasn't it, Miss Granger?"

She nodded, though she didn't lower her eyes from his. "Yes. Harry's our friend. And if he can fight, we ought to be able to, too."

"He's had specialized training," Rufus reminded her sharply. "If you come, you have to remember that you _haven't_. Only do what you think is both necessary and safe to detain the Death Eaters."

Granger looked happier as she nodded again, though also more stubborn. _Gryffindors, _Rufus thought. He would have to take precautions anyway, assign someone to keep an eye on them, but he would far rather do that at Redfield than at the castle. One time, and one time only, he'd made the mistake of forbidding someone young and stubborn from coming to battle, and left him behind in the guard of an Auror who had permission to Stun him, Body-Bind him, and take his wand to prevent him from joining the Aurors on the field.

It hadn't worked. True stubbornness found a way past any guard, and it also made its possessors rush rashly onto the field, waving their wands about and screaming in triumph that they were there. And then Death Eaters saw them, took them for the vulnerable targets they were, and cast Killing Curses at them.

Rufus had lost his nephew that day. Though Granger and the Weasley boy were by no means so dear to him, he would like to prevent a similar loss from happening to Potter.

He leaned forward until he held Granger's eye, and said, "_Remember_. This is a _battle._ If you try to act like heroes, you'll get yourselves killed, and you also stand a high chance of getting Potter killed. This is the price if you come: you have to act like _adults_, since that's what you say you are, not like children."

Granger, looking impressed, nodded. Ron Weasley had a different look in his eyes now, not just pure resistance, but more the calm consideration of a tactician. He nodded, too, and Rufus looked back at Dumbledore, the one person in the room who hadn't said anything about accompanying them to Redfield.

The Headmaster uttered a long sigh that Rufus had heard before, the sound of someone who did not like his choices, but had to make the best of them. He raised his head and nodded.

"I will come," he said.

Rufus gave a sharp nod back, and asked for quill and ink so that he could send an owl to the Ministry with the necessary instructions.

* * *

Potter was awake early on the morning of the battle, of course, as Severus would have expected. He managed to choke down some pumpkin juice, but he pushed away the bowl of cornflakes with a nauseated shake of his head. Severus let him do it. It wasn't breakfast that would decide this battle, and Potter had eaten well enough last night to physically sustain himself.

"He will still be at Redfield," Severus assured him.

Harry looked up at him, green eyes glassy as they always had seemed to be since the mental battle with the Dark Lord. "Do you think so?" he asked quietly. "I know I commanded him to remain there, but if the command wasn't strong enough—"

"We have to think it was," said Severus calmly, and checked the contents of his pockets once more. The Invisibility Cloak was in its place, and all the potions that he thought he might need, and his wand. _Good._ He stood and extended a hand to Potter, so they could Apparate. "And now we are going to kill him."

Potter rose to his feet with a shaky gulp, but there was joy burning behind the gloss in his eyes, too. Severus gave him a thin smile, the kind of smile brothers-in-arms shared, while he took the boy's arm and began to lower the wards around Bolthole.

Of course he was aware of excitement eating at him like a fever. If all went well, in a few hours he would be free, and in possession of both his own life and much more prestige than he'd ever had. If all did not go well, he would be dead, but that had been so common a possibility for the last few decades that he saw no point in worrying about _that._

But just because they were going to kill their greatest enemy was no reason to rush about like fools.

The wards parted in that moment, and Severus vanished, taking Harry Potter along with him to meet their destiny.


	41. Endings

Thanks for the reviews yesterday! Here's the first chapter of the battle.

**Warning**some gore.

_Chapter 41—Endings_

Rufus landed from his Apparition, and gathered his Aurors around him with a glance. Twenty-five had come, including Tonks, Shacklebolt, and Moody. Rufus would have brought even more, but too large a group wouldn't have been able to move silently, so he had tried to compromise between as many as he thought might be needed to let them defeat the Death Eaters and as many as would be allowed to get close.

"Remember my advice," he said.

Every Auror except Moody nodded. Moody was staring ahead, both eyes, for once, fixed in the same position.

"Alastor!" Rufus hissed, even as Tonks cast a spell that, hopefully, should keep their voices and footsteps confined to themselves, allowing no one outside the charmed group to hear them. "Did you understand me?"

Slowly, Moody glanced at him, and gave a distracted glance. "Of course, Minister," he said. "It makes sense."

Rufus ground his teeth, and hoped that Alastor wouldn't do something mad like dash off on a whim. He'd told the Aurors to stay close together, to be wary of revealing themselves unless they were sure they could capture or kill an enemy, and to do nothing that could call attention to themselves in less than a fatal situation. Shacklebolt and a new Auror called Comfrey were casting Disillusionment Charms on them now, but even that wouldn't survive contact with the enemy if Moody insisted on behaving like a maddened bull.

_Of course, what battle plan _does _survive contact with the enemy?_

"Come," he whispered then, with a little gesture of his hand, and they moved off.

* * *

Harry shuddered as he and Snape popped into existence again near a hill which seemed as if it could belong to the same country as Voldemort's stronghold, though, looking around, Harry couldn't recognize the glade, ridge, and caves he'd seen. But that was all right. He trusted Snape not to bring them to a wrong destination.

_Not to do many other things to me, of course. But I think he's capable of Apparating us._ Harry used the image of himself refusing an unknown potion to calm down and wrench his mind away from the dreadful task that awaited it. He knew Voldemort was here, and not just because he'd bound the other wizard's mind with the command not to move. His scar had begun to prickle the moment they appeared, and the prickling swiftly built into pain.

"When you enter his mind," Snape said abruptly, "you must not allow yourself to be distracted."

"I know that," said Harry shortly. He appreciated it most when Snape treated him like an adult, and that meant not repeating things he already knew, or requiring acknowledgment of them from Harry, either. It was almost a good thing that the pace of their training this week had been so frenetic. Forced to spend time in each other's company thinking about something else, they would probably have gone back to sniping at best and a near-fatal duel at worst.

"You do not understand what I mean," said Snape calmly, and then dropped into a kneel, holding his eyes so firmly that Harry had no excuse to look away from him. "When you come into his mind, you must not care about _anything_ else. I know you can stand damage from him. What you cannot do is worry about the rest of the battle—about your friends, or me, or Dumbledore, or the Minister. You can do nothing to save us, and if we could not defend ourselves, we should have no reason to be here. Can you remember that? That your task is limited, and specific, and you need not play hero to everyone else?"

Harry gave a slow nod. "I don't know if I could have a few days ago," he said. "But—it seems easier to not care, somehow, since Voldemort's attack."

Snape gave him a fathomless look as he rose to his feet. "You know why that is, Potter."

Harry nodded again. The attack that had nearly torn his empathy from him had dimmed his emotions in regards to other people, other than the fear that he might do poorly when he tried to kill Voldemort with Legilimency. He could contemplate his old antagonism with Snape almost from a distance, and though Snape had warned him that Ron and Hermione might come to the battle with the Order, Harry had not destroyed himself with worry. If they came, they came. He couldn't prevent it. He only hoped they would stay out of his way, and he would be irritated if they did not.

Snape abruptly lifted his head, and touched something in his pocket, a thin smile winding its way around his face. "Both the Headmaster and the Minister are here, then," he murmured. At Harry's confused glance, he pulled out something that looked almost like the Weasley family clock, though much smaller. "I enchanted this with my knowledge of them both," he explained. "I wanted to be _sure_ of when they arrived, and how much force they had likely brought to deal with the Death Eaters."

"I never saw you making it," Harry observed, because a statement like that seemed to require some reply.

"It is a spell I will show you when the battle is done," Snape said absently, eyes still locked on the clock face, probably reading some extra information there. "It requires much deep concentration, but only a single incantation and simple flick of the wand when all is said and done."

Harry caught his breath. It was the first time Snape had said anything definite about believing that Harry would survive the battle.

But then he shook his head and faced forward again. Even if Snape believed he'd survive, what happened next was the least of Harry's concerns right now. He needed to focus on the present.

He called up the same clarity that had helped him decide, finally, to face Bellatrix, and poured all his attention through it, like focusing light through a prism. How many times had Snape told him that belief was central to Legilimency? Convince himself of something, and he had nearly enacted it. A strong will, backed by belief, had let him almost commit suicide. He could build himself up to the same pitch now, and he would have to, if he were to ignore the promptings of his own Gryffindor instincts and the physical sensations of spells and shrieks.

Slowly, he pared away everything else. He used the memories of events telling him, over and over again, what his task was: the obsession with him that Voldemort had picked up; the fact that, in second year, he'd been the only one able to enter the Chamber of Secrets; the weight of the prophecy globe in his hand; Dumbledore's voice telling him that it _had_ to be him who would defeat the Dark Lord, because Neville hadn't been marked; how he'd thrown off Voldemort's Imperius Curse in fourth year, and survived a duel with him, not something many adult wizards could claim.

Like it or not, fair or not, advisable or not, he was the only one who could do this. And the price for unique power _was_ being the only one who could use it.

He opened his eyes, his mind centered, as if he stood in the eye of a hurricane, or on a sun among spinning planets. He caught Snape's eye and nodded. "I'm ready. Shall I call him?"

* * *

Severus watched approvingly as the boy stripped his mind of everything extraneous. He was not in Legilimency contact with Potter at the moment, of course, but he could hear his breathing growing relaxed, see the hectic flush fade from his cheeks, and make out the lack of a fearful sheen in his eyes when he opened them. He was as serene as he would ever become.

"Yes," he said, as he pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of his robe pocket and draped it over Potter, leaving only his face free, so that he could make eye contact with the Dark Lord. Severus's wand, the Aurors, and the Order of the Phoenix would, of course, do their best to defend Potter from Death Eaters while he battled, but it would be better if he had an extra level of protection, and they found it difficult to know where to aim their wands. "You are ready."

Potter inclined his head, halfway between a nod and a bow, and then the air trembled with the call of a Siren Song as he walked forward, only the swish of his robes against the snow and the dry grass otherwise marking his passage. Severus followed.

* * *

Rufus and Dumbledore met at the edge of the anti-Apparition spells that marked the entrance to Redfield. Rufus slowed, canceled the spell that only allowed him to be heard by his Aurors, and nodded at the Headmaster. He was relieved to see that, while Granger and Ron Weasley were in the Order's train, the Weasley parents stood carefully on either side of them to prevent useless heroics.

"Good morning, Rufus," Dumbledore said, as composed as ever. "I trust that you had a good night's right?"

"I did." Rufus had dosed himself with Dreamless Sleep and left an order with Tonks to firecall him three hours before the battle began. He didn't want his curses to miss because he had lain awake wondering and worrying about things he could not change. He nodded to the ridge ahead of them, which was covered with small drifts of snow, especially thick in the parts sheltered from the wind. If one squinted, the shimmer of wards was visible, thin as metal cords, but far more deadly. "How do you propose we get past these?"

"I know Tom of old," said Dumbledore composedly, drawing his wand. "And since the moment has come when Severus told us to be here, I have no hesitations in dissipating the wards. That will warn him, of course, and strip us of our concealment spells, but if young Harry has truly trained to conquer him with Legilimency, he has more pressing things to worry about."

He whispered a spell under his breath that Rufus couldn't hear. Rufus shook his head. _Secretive old man. He keeps everything to himself as much as he can._

The wards abruptly snapped, dangled in the air like frayed cables for a moment, and then vanished. Rufus heard a shout from the field ahead. He grimaced and gripped his wand more tightly, and waited, staring up the ridge.

Sure enough, a head appeared—cautious, as though the person peering expected company, but not cautious enough. Rufus cast a powerful Stunner, and the head dropped, the body rolling limply into view. Rufus gave a tight smile that he knew looked like another grimace and nodded to the rest of the Order, then to his Aurors.

"I believe we have a job to do," he said, and moved out of the way so that other, swifter people could ascend the hill before him. A leader with a bad leg didn't look at his most inspiring when leading a charge.

* * *

Harry was charming death.

Voldemort's attention swayed back and forth, now awakening to the Siren Song and trying stubbornly to resist it, now falling back under Harry's domination. Harry knew his enemy's mind even better than he had the night he stood on the Astronomy Tower. He could fling subtle notes around it, tuned to Voldemort's deepest desires. He presented the immortality of cold, gleaming metal; the immortality of an eternally youthful body; the immortality of a wizard that the Muggles would still fear to speak the name of in a thousand years. So long as he could convince Voldemort, even in dreams, that he would never die, the Dark Lord was inclined to listen.

It was rather, Harry thought with the detached part of himself not involved in the Siren Song, like flinging reins around a huge cobra. The cobra tossed its head, and some of the reins fell off, but others coiled loosely around its neck, light ribbons it didn't bother to strike at as it swayed back and forth to the music of the pipe in front of it. And the ribbons that landed and stayed grew thicker and thicker as the moments passed and Harry rejected the parts of the Siren Song that didn't work, keeping and elaborating on the ones that did.

His mind grew sharper and sharper, keener and keener, more concentrated on what he had to do, until he could barely remember to keep his legs moving. Names drifted in his head. _Snape_ referred to someone, and so did _Ron_ and _Hermione_, but they were like the names of planets on a Potions test: still existent in his head, but unlikely to be useful.

Meanwhile, the cobra grew clearer and clearer, more and more present, to his thoughts, and they drew closer and closer together.

* * *

The Death Eaters came barreling forth from the caves at the end of Redfield like a swarm of disturbed bees.

Rufus had warned his Aurors that there was no curse they would not use, and he watched in grim pride as his people remembered that and obeyed the implications, casting first and hard, against the instincts that might have warned them to wait as they usually did in arrests. The first two Death Eaters, heavyset men with their robes flapping around them like seaweed, had their legs turned to stone from one of Shacklebolt's curses, effectively holding them in place. Tonks cast a spell that yanked a thin, starveling wretch, probably one of the Azkaban refugees, into the air and spun him there as if on invisible chains, fast enough that every attempt by his friends to find a countercurse sped right past him. Comfrey fell prey to a Death Eater's Stunner, but he'd already cast a spell that made his attacker sag into a coma, which it would take more than a simple _Finite Incantatem_ or Reenergizing Cantrip to bring him out of.

Dumbledore did his share of the work, of course, and most of the Death Eaters hesitated when they saw him. Spells Rufus didn't recognize snapped from his wand again and again, bolts of red and blue and golden light cutting across the battlefield, knocking the Death Eaters down, Transfiguring them, causing them to swat at invisible things, and making them scream and scream with their eyes fixed on nothing. Rufus tried to suppress the impulse to wonder what would have happened if Dumbledore had taken the field before now, how different things would have been. _I suppose he had his reasons for staying at Hogwarts until the final battle came upon us._

He'd just managed to drop into Redfield when he saw a man coming at a dead run towards them, his face unmasked, his long pale hair flying behind him. Rufus felt a surge of hatred work its way up his throat. He disliked this man more for the fact that he'd been free for so long than any one spell he cast. _Lucius Malfoy._

Malfoy seemed to recognize him in the same moment. He halted, staring. Rufus saw something like madness in his eyes. Azkaban had not been kind to him.

Then Malfoy laughed lowly and attacked.

Rufus raised a Shield Charm, which barely held against the Entrail-Expelling Curse Malfoy had used. Then he tried the Blasting Curse, but Malfoy forced him to dodge before he could complete the spell as he blew the ground at Rufus's feet up. Luckily, Rufus recognized the wand motion, since Malfoy had used a nonverbal incantation, and he sprang away just as the earth fountained, sending chunks of sod and grass a good distance into the air.

Someone shouted next to him, and Malfoy turned his wand almost lazily in that direction, yet far too fast for Rufus to do anything about it. When he looked along the track of the spell a moment later, Tonks lay on the ground, an enormous bloody wound in the middle of her chest. Rufus couldn't tell whether she was alive or dead.

Rage possessed him, and he aimed his wand at Malfoy and snarled, "_Diffringo costae!_"

Malfoy rocked as his ribs began to shatter one by one. Rufus hoped one of them went into the bastard's lungs. He started to turn to check on Tonks.

And then he realized that he shouldn't have underestimated the benefit that Azkaban could offer to Malfoy, either, like the ability to cling to his own mad goals through considerable pain. A muttered, gasped spell, and Rufus cried out as the old wound in his leg opened, throwing him to the ground with it twisted beneath him, exactly as if this were the battlefield where he'd taken the injury from Antonin Dolohov.

He rolled over and gripped his wand. Malfoy had managed to end his Rib-Breaking Curse, and had a smile on his face as he stalked forwards.

"Now, old man," he whispered, "you die."

Rufus snarled at him, and prepared to sell his life as dearly as he could.

* * *

Severus flicked his wand idly, and Rookwood went down screaming as his intestines burst out of him violently enough to drape themselves over his head. Severus didn't always like to use the Entrail-Expelling Curse—he felt it lacked a certain elegance—but if he wanted to impress his enemies into backing away from him, there was nothing better. Certainly, the other Death Eaters in sight danced back, their breath coming harshly, and turned to find a less protected target.

Severus scowled as he turned another Death Eater's head into a pumpkin, killing him at once as his brain vanished. He was spending far too much of his time downing Death Eaters that the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry Aurors should already have put out of the battle. _Do they not understand that this is a war? Tying them up or knocking them out, as if they were to be arrested, does not prevent someone else from coming along and reviving them. But then, that is the Light for you._

"We meet again, my dear boy."

_Albus._ Severus did not take his attention from the witch in front of him, someone who must have joined the Death Eaters in the last few weeks; Bellatrix had been the only active woman among them, the last he knew. He flicked his wand, twice, and her breasts burned to ash. Then he severed her spine, and she began to die slowly. Severus watched her, and wondered whether he wanted to give her a quick death or not.

"Your morals have decayed, Severus," the Headmaster said sadly beside him, as he flicked his wand. The witch's face relaxed; she'd gone to sleep and death, both at once.

"And my actions have proven by far the most effective, Headmaster," Severus said, and did his best not to look towards Potter, who should be almost at the caves by now. They'd separated as they came into Redfield; it would attract too much attention if Severus seemed to protect a patch of moving air. And he did not want to lead Albus or the Minister too soon to the discovery of the boy, either. For all he knew, Albus might yet have one of his ill-timed fits of good-will and try to deter Harry from killing the Dark Lord as he should.

"One could argue about that—" Dumbledore began, in the same gentle tone that he used over tea.

And then power stirred at the entrance of the caves, and the Dark Lord came forth—called by the Siren Song, Severus knew, and unable to wait any longer.

* * *

Malfoy leveled his wand. Rufus glared back, trying to find the strength and the breath for a spell.

"MALFOY!"

Lucius twitched, his head turning in the direction of the shout. And then it went on turning forever, as the Decapitation Curse caught him, severed his neck, and sent it flying. Rufus blinked as a spray of warm blood soaked his face, and went on staring in shock until a hand gripped his arm and tugged him to his feet. He stumbled on his weak leg, but he had a strong shoulder there to support him already.

"All right there, Rufus?" Moody chuckled, and his magical eye spun rapidly around his face with insistent good humor. "Don't want you to lose your head, now. It seems rather an epidemic in these parts."

_Sometimes it is good to have the wildest of the Aurors on your side, _Rufus thought wryly, but just as he opened his mouth to thank Moody, an oppressive sensation of power fell on him. He shivered, his jaw hanging open as he turned and looked south, between the suddenly faltering battles, towards the caves at the far end of Redfield.

You-Know-Who stood there, his magic beating about him like dark wings.

* * *

_Now._

The moment Harry had the thought, he acted, letting the Siren Song drop and pushing the hood of the Invisibility Cloak away from his face enough to make eye contact with Voldemort. He could feel his scar bursting with pain, the panic and fear all around him, Voldemort's stunned surprise as he suddenly awoke with a headache to match the pain in Harry's brow—

_No. None of those are important. Only one thing matters._

He made eye contact, and pushed his Legilimency outwards as hard as he could. Like a leap across a void, he didn't know, for a long period of time, where he was going to land.

And then he plunged into Voldemort's mind, and the true battle began.


	42. The Power The Dark Lord Knows Not

Thanks for the reviews today! And now, the next chapter.

_Chapter 42—The Power The Dark Lord Knows Not_

Harry ignored the hundreds of shadows that immediately surrounded him, stalking him in a coordinated whirlwind. He hadn't known that Voldemort would use shadows to stop him, but he knew from the way they pushed against his Legilimency that they were only illusions, like some of the false weaknesses Snape liked to show in his shields, not true defenses.

He drove forward and pushed himself through the one part that seemed undefended.

Voldemort shrieked in pain, and then his mind folded in on Harry. Harry knew what he was trying to do, and kept moving through it. This was a variant on Beholding. If he stopped, it would surround him with a maze of mirrors, trap him with reflections of his own thoughts, and cut him off from his physical self. Then Voldemort only had to cast the Killing Curse at his body, and all was done.

_Keep moving, no matter what he does._

That was the basic advice Snape had given Harry. Of course he should use the tactics he had learned while he fought Snape up and down the battlefields of their own minds, but if all else failed and he had to rely on courage and strength alone, movement was essential.

And already, Harry thought he would have to rely on courage and strength alone.

Voldemort confronted him next with a whirling wall of silver that he'd never seen before, and which pushed against him in a way that made it impossible to tell if this was defense or attack, Occlumency or Legilimency. Harry felt the horrible compulsion to hesitate creeping over him. How could he go forward when he didn't know what it was? How could he risk himself, if his life _was_ important to killing Voldemort? If he died here, no one else could stop him.

And then he chopped off that blossoming fear, and remembered Snape's advice, and pushed forward again. His task was to kill Voldemort, not to worry about the external world. How many times had Snape said that, and Harry told himself that? And he'd still nearly fallen into the trap.

Voldemort darted the silver wall at him, and Harry felt a strange swell of pain travel through him, like a promise of agony in his scar while he was under the heavy influence of a Calming Draught. He supposed he would feel another cut in his mind when he got back to his body. But Voldemort's mental construction of suffering wasn't enough to stand up to his mental construct of determination, and he bulled through.

The silver wall backed off, and came in again.

Harry lashed forward and latched grimly onto the nearest vulnerable part he could find—presumably whatever part Voldemort had left undefended while he built the silver wall. He gripped it and tore it sideways, like a sheet of paper. Voldemort screamed, and Harry recognized the tone of the scream, the same one Bellatrix had uttered. This was Voldemort's memory core.

And then, as if he'd been standing in a dark room and the lights had come on, he realized he _knew_ that. He knew Voldemort's mind, after all, and while he was mad, his thoughts weren't as chaotic as Bellatrix's. Probably one of Voldemort's Occlumency defenses was convincing any mental invaders that they were blind and confused.

Harry could see now, though, and he was determined not to lose his sight again.

He slit the core, and went straight for the memory that he knew distressed Voldemort the most. His presence called it naturally to the surface, as his command to Voldemort to stay at Redfield had called up the image of the place. Again the brilliant green light of the Killing Curse flashed, and Voldemort's body turned to dust, his last glimpse that of a child in a cot, with a bloody cut on his forehead, who looked just as surprised as he felt.

Voldemort snarled and heaved around him, but still his attack was controlled; he cared equally about protecting himself and hurting Harry. Another defense, or offense, Harry didn't know manifested: a scythe swinging back and forth. When it hit, physical sensations he'd thought forgotten sleeted through him. Once again, he was very young, and toddling with muscles so thick and fat it felt as if they'd never work properly.

Knowledge of being older mixed with the absolute conviction that he was younger, and Harry felt his Legilimency becoming no more than a shadow in Voldemort's mind, as he poured back towards his body so he could feel his muscles now and correct the imbalance.

_No!_

Harry grabbed frantically at the next memory of himself that rose to the surface. It mingled with Voldemort's attack like two crossing beams of moonlight, and he _felt_, as well as saw, the fourteen-year-old boy in the graveyard, terrified, in shock, but still determined not to bow to Voldemort's Imperius Curse. The grass slipped beneath his feet, and his mind struggled like one of Hagrid's beasts against the constraints of the Unforgivable, finally tossing it off.

He separated himself from the convulsions, though, when Voldemort began to feel rage. He knew he himself hadn't felt that kind of rage, that impulse to shriek at the stupid boy as to _why_ he couldn't just _obey_ him?

He had to do something more, though. Voldemort hovered on the very edge of fury so great it would make him attack full-out. His remembered emotion bled into the present one, and Harry could feel them tilting towards loss of control, then back towards self-possession, with all the regularity of a beating heart.

He dredged up one of his own emotions, though so effectively had he stripped himself of those on the battlefield before he came here that he had to work _hard_ to make the shadow of it in his Legilimency into the real thing.

He laughed.

Voldemort snapped.

The wave of power that reared back then made Snape's attempts to crush his mind during Legilimency "lessons" back at Hogwarts seem like trickles. Harry knew he had to choose, _now_, in the moments before Voldemort could muster his full strength, how he would meet it, because being swept out of his mind and back into his own body, or drowned and destroyed, was not an option.

There was only one sacrifice he could make, really. It was the part of himself that had already attracted Voldemort's attention. And he had Snape's assurance that if that part of him were lost, he would not live long enough to inflict damage on other people.

As the wave came at him, Harry backed against one of Voldemort's own Occlumency shields, abandoned for the moment while he focused on his attack. As Snape had taught Harry, the Dark Lord was so competent a Legilimens that he tended to neglect the defensive art in the offensive side's favor, and so he'd never become good enough at Occlumency to figure out a spy hid right in the midst of his Death Eaters. Harry was praying, now, that that ignorance would work against the natural advantage Voldemort had on his mental "home ground."

He flung his maimed empathy in the wave's way, and dedicated the rest of his soul to clinging to the Occlumency shield. If he lost the ability to care for others, he lost it, but _he would finish this._

He imagined roots of determination and dedication growing deep into the soil of Voldemort's mind. Sometimes, as Snape had shown him, visualization was everything. Use a good image, and that would contribute to his belief, and belief would keep him safe. There were plants that clung to tidal rocks and endured wash after wash of the ocean. They stayed there. He could stay here, too.

And then the wave rushed over him.

Harry couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't hear, could do nothing but think. He had expected some foul tide such as he had found in Bellatrix's mind, but this was sensory deprivation, as if he had lost every perception of the world at once. Fear clawed and hammered at him, internal pressure adding to the external pressure, driving him swiftly towards madness. Horror thrummed through him, but he had nothing with which to express it. Perhaps he was screaming soundlessly, but he didn't think so. His mouth was gone.

And still he held his image of the plant in his mind, clinging to the rocks as the tide withdrew. He could do that. How did the plant know when the wave left? Probably through senses humans didn't have.

Reality tried to intervene, to tell him plants didn't have awareness like that, and Harry beat it back down. Reality couldn't help him now. He told himself he had the power to shape reality to his liking, here in the mental world, and he made himself _believe_ it.

When the conception came to him that Voldemort's wave of power was withdrawing, he didn't try to analyze it, but accepted it as the result of his created intuition, and let go of the Occlumency shield at last.

He was drifting, drifting with the current—

With the wave of power, back towards the center of Voldemort's mind, the vulnerable part, where the wave had come from.

Harry felt his senses return, bit by bit. He couldn't tell if his empathy was gone. He felt very empty, at least of everything but the dedication. He imagined a bit of plant wrapped around a deadly virus, and went on drifting. The sea itself would not know the blight it carried.

Voldemort sniffed along above him. Harry knew that, but he tried not to feel anything towards him, not even hatred. Plants felt nothing. Feel something, and Voldemort would be able to track that awareness down and locate him.

That vast mind, which was the sea where Harry drifted and the sky where Voldemort hunted both at once, made another sweep over him. Harry lay there and watched and waited. He would know when the moment came, because he would.

_Is this what it's like to have no empathy? It's peaceful._

Voldemort paused as if he had heard the thought, and wings of shadow beat just overhead. And Harry knew the moment had come, because if he delayed any longer, he would probably be caught.

He unfolded himself, and the visualizations of plant and virus were both gone. What remained was nothing more than determination to _kill_.

Voldemort hesitated, and for Harry, all the darkness turned to light. Voldemort didn't pause then because he had trouble distinguishing Harry from himself, as he had so far. No, he paused because he feared the idea of pain too great should he attack, just as he had when he'd come into Snape's mind.

And Harry _understood._

He understood as he flung the determination straight into the core of Voldemort's mind, and it exploded into ripping blades forged in metal that had begun as agony and horror and hatred, but had ended as the will to get _rid_ of Voldemort. That was all. Harry didn't try to defend himself.

Voldemort feared death. Harry did not.

_That's the power the Dark Lord knows not, _Harry thought, staring straight into the truth while Voldemort's mind began to shred around him. _I can give all my strength to this because I care about killing him more than I care about staying alive. And he can't give all his strength to killing me because, more than he's obsessed with me, he's obsessed with never dying._

That was the last coherent thought he had time for. _Everything_ poured into the cutting, the whirling, the tearing, the death.

_Everything._

What had once been Harry spread wide to embrace the sacrifice, as he had at that moment on the top of the Astronomy Tower. There, though, he had had guilt over Sirius weighing him down and distorting his perceptions. Here, he had done what he was supposed to do, the way he was supposed to do it.

He was passing—

And then he was rushing backwards, and light and noise opened around him with the impact of a thunderclap, and he knew nothing else.

* * *

Severus had fought his way to Potter's side as soon as he realized what was happening.

He did not have to fight Death Eaters. Those yet alive were standing as still as everyone else on the battlefield. But breaking from that stillness was like walking into a high wind. The Dark Lord had perfected some new Dark Art, probably with research into auras, and pushed his magic out into the air. Severus could feel the insistent weight pushing on him, unseen but there, like midsummer heat, claiming everything would be all right if he halted, and panted, and ended up sinking to his knees.

Severus had more practice resisting such domination and such coaxing than most, though, from not one powerful wizard, but two. He struggled through it, ignoring the picture he must have presented with one leaden foot rising and another falling, and he knelt at Potter's side, his gaze intent on the motionless, wide-open eyes.

He was watching for a sign he might not see, and he knew it. And when he saw it, he would have to move so quickly that this "slim chance" was more likely "no chance" at all.

Potter's eyes flashed briefly, as if with the reflection of a dying star—the sign of the death of an enemy Legilimens.

Severus struck him as hard as he could on the head.

The boy went flying sideways, breaking his eye contact with the Dark Lord. If Severus had judged it aright, the sudden disruption of his Legilimency would have come in time to snatch Potter out of the Dark Lord's dying mind and prevent his own dying. He'd been able to handle it on his own with Bellatrix, but he had not had to venture as far into her mind as he would have had to go this time.

Severus did not wait to see if it had worked. He stood and turned to face the Dark Lord's body. The Death Eaters and his erstwhile allies were already stirring, the oppression that had held them motionless fading.

Severus called up all his old hatred of the Dark Lord that he had felt when he realized what the Dark Mark really meant, all his self-loathing, all the resentment he'd felt when he made sacrifice after sacrifice and received no reward and no acknowledgment, and all the dark exaltation that he had the right to feel if he was really free at last, and poured it into his magic.

"_Flamma casta!_"

The white flame exploded, an impact that blinded Severus and flung him several feet backwards. He felt smug even as he fell, though. There could be no doubt about the pure, sun-like color of that flame, and everyone would have heard him shout the incantation. When they looked for the Dark Lord's body, they would find not even ashes, and thus no way for him to return.

Everyone on Redfield would know that he had participated, very publicly and very "nobly," in the defeat of Voldemort.

_They cannot deny me my glory now._

Severus scrambled carefully to his feet several minutes later, murmuring a spell that should clear the dazzling afterimages from his eyes. He saw the Aurors already busy putting out the fires his spell had started in the grass, and sneered. _Gryffindors. They care more for that than for a Slytherin. _

Then he caught Shacklebolt's sideways glance, and realized that it might not be scorn at all. No, they _feared_ him.

Severus felt a surge of terrific joy. He smiled at Shacklebolt. The Auror looked hastily away and nearly mucked up his next spell.

Severus took a deep breath, looked one more time to make sure the Dark Lord's body was gone—of course it was—and, as a personal test, whispered the name he'd never spoken aloud since he was initiated as a Death Eater.

"Voldemort."

It came easily from his lips. _Yes._ He believed, on the deepest levels of his own mind, that the Dark Lord was gone.

He turned to find Potter. He needed to know, first, if the boy was still alive, and then if he'd survived with his empathy intact. Even if he had, he would be badly wounded in the mental sense. Severus knew most of those wounds could be healed, but the first hours after the attack were critical, and Potter would need an experienced Legilimens to work with him, not merely someone accustomed to prodding at wounds with magic.

He could not find the boy. He looked sharply about, tempted for a moment by the ridiculous supposition that his own fire had consumed him. Still, he saw only Death Eaters flinging down their wands in abject, terrified surrender, and Aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix taking their wands and Stunning them.

The Minister limped towards him on the shoulder of Alastor Moody. Severus ignored the gleam in the madman's eyes, and asked, "Where is Potter? Does he live?"

"He is alive," said Scrimgeour quietly. He was grimacing in pain, probably from the wound that had left him unable to walk, but his voice was steady, and Severus did not think he was lying. "The Headmaster determined that, and then said he would take him to St. Mungo's."

Severus snarled, a sound that made even Moody blink at him. Then he swung on his heel and Apparated.

Albus had _said_ he was going to St. Mungo's. Severus did not believe him. He would not take Harry where he might be bothered and prevented from manipulating him as he saw fit.

No, he had taken him to Hogwarts.

And, mentally wounded as Potter undoubtedly was _at best_, the Headmaster would be able to shape and mold his mind like clay. Let enough hours pass, and the shapings would settle into new patterns of thoughts for Potter, like bones set the wrong way.

If the worst had happened and Potter had lost his empathy, they were looking at the rising of a new Dark Lord—one the Headmaster did not suspect, and would not be prepared to deal with.

_Albus, why must you always meddle?_


	43. Harry

Thanks again for the reviews!

_Chapter 43—Harry's War_

Harry considered the darkness that surrounded him, then turned and concentrated on the part of it that blocked him from the surface of his own mind. It felt like a new growth of flesh and blood when he probed it—an instinctive Occlumency defense against whatever pain lay beyond.

But he would have to cut through it in order to find out what had happened. He knew he had killed Voldemort, but he wasn't sure what had happened next, or how badly wounded he was, or how he'd survived.

He concentrated on the flesh barrier. A sword shimmered into being in his hand, though reluctantly, which told him something about the exhaustion of his mind after that battle; even his imagination seemed slow. It might take a long time to wake up. But he wouldn't make it shorter by standing here.

Harry stepped forward and began to cut.

* * *

Severus did not know the password for the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office, and he did not care. He had no time for this sort of game when the Headmaster might be undoing all his work. He aimed his wand at the gargoyle and started to mutter a Dark curse just on this side of the Unforgivables, but the statue apparently heard him and made its own decision, because it jumped quickly out of the way. Severus gave it a smirk and swept past, up the moving staircase.

He pushed through the office door without a pause, and barely had time to raise his eyebrows—_Either he did not remember his wards, or he is drawing all his magic in to concentrate on Potter and had none left for defense—_before he saw Dumbledore standing and looking intently at Harry, who sat slumped in a chair in front of him.

Dumbledore looked up without surprise, though Severus saw his eyes widen a touch. "Severus," he said. "I thought you would be at St. Mungo's with the rest of the casualties from the battle."

"I was not wounded," Severus replied shortly, and stalked a step forwards. "What do you think you're doing, old man?"

"But you were wounded," said Dumbledore, his gaze growing sharper, as if he did not understand how he could have been mistaken. "Don't you remember, my boy? An impressive curse that grazed your side and tore a wound open. You'll have the scar for the rest of your life, but a Healer can treat it so that it's no _worse_ than a scar, if you leave _right now._"

Severus felt, for a moment, his belief in the world around him waver. And then he realized he was making eye contact with the Headmaster, and what that meant. He turned his head to the left, breathing sharply, and the overwhelming feeling of the truth in those words left him.

"If you use Legilimency on Potter, you will make this worse," he ground out. He had nothing to say about Dumbledore's attempt to intimidate him, not yet. There was something more at stake here than a tactic he should have fully expected, and known better than to encourage with eye contact. "Do you really want that, Albus? I thought, at least, that you valued the boy's life, and wanted to make sure he survived past the moment when he killed Voldemort."

Dumbledore sucked in a startled breath. _From my saying the name, _Severus realized, looking back at him but not meeting his eyes. _He did not realize how much things have changed. _

That realization grounded him. Severus took a deep breath. He had changed, and Albus had not been there to see the alterations. He would be more easily surprised than Severus, who knew all _his_ tactics, as long as Severus kept his wits about him.

"I wish to make sure that he survives, of course," said Dumbledore, and his eyes twinkled again. "Even more, though, I want to make sure that his experiences in this war do not permanently corrupt his young life. I was trying to dim some of his memories of the awfulness of this battle, so that he can live normally, and rejoin his friends as a student striving to complete his education. After a week or so spent in St. Mungo's, he should have recovered."

Severus laughed in incredulity. "And you think that he'll ever be _normal_ again, Albus? Sometimes you surprise me." His wand hand twitched with the need to launch curses, but that would not work. Dumbledore was magically stronger than he was, and if worst came to worst, the school would defend its Headmaster. "It is _normal_, if you will, for people who fight wars to be afflicted with mental scars. I am sure that you have some of your own."

"Yes," Albus agreed, "but I am a man, Severus, and I was old even when I fought Grindelwald. Harry is only a boy." He gave Potter a look of affection that at one point in his life would have made Severus jealous, and this time only made him alarmed. Then he actually ruffled Potter's hair. Severus wanted to retch from the sweetness of it all. "He has to do something none of us could, but that was because of a prophecy. The prophecy has been fulfilled, and that period of his life is over. He deserves to be happy now."

"He nearly lost his ability to love when Voldemort attacked him a few days ago," said Severus levelly.

The Headmaster stared at him. Severus felt a bit of hope. If Dumbledore had not noticed such a deep wound even staring into the boy's mind, then it might be that Harry had managed to retain his empathy.

"I know," Severus said, taking a step forward, "that he still had it when he went into battle. But the wound was deep, and under _normal_ circumstances he would have taken a great deal of time to recover. And this is the boy who just killed the Dark Lord with Legilimency, Albus. And you want him to be unchanged? Oh, yes, he can be—in your mind. But to himself, and to me, and to the rest of the world, he will have been altered, as he should be."

The Headmaster looked back at Potter. Severus hoped that the battle between common sense and the desire to interfere in his mind would be won by common sense, for once. It was the only hope he truly had.

_Unless…_

He had not gone unchanged from his training with Potter, either. Far behind his façade of tranquility, Severus began to build a certain Legilimency strike. It was one he had not known how to do, or at best imperfectly, when he fled the school, and Albus would not be expecting it.

If worst came to worst with Albus, he would disable him with Legilimency, take the boy, and remove him to the care of St. Mungo's in full sight of the Minister and the Order of the Phoenix. There should be an _end_ of Albus's ability to do things without people questioning him.

* * *

Harry was cutting through a particularly thick ridge of the flesh barrier when the first echo of voices reached him. He paused and cocked his head, but he couldn't make out what they said. That was frustrating, and he went back to chopping with a will.

The first blast of pain hit him then. Harry had to brace himself against it, but when it was past, he snorted. Was that all his own mind could do against him? Voldemort had been much worse.

He had thought it would hurt to remember the battle, but it didn't. He had only done what he needed to do, and he didn't feel nearly as badly about Voldemort's painful death as he had about Bellatrix's.

_Does that make me a monster?_

_Only one way to find out._

He envisioned a second blade, delighted when it appeared for him a little more easily than the other one had, and began to slice, taking the dangling strips that he cut on the first pass completely off with the second. He whirled deeper and deeper into the flesh, and there was no one to hold him back, unless he was going to be afraid of his own pain or his own changes.

* * *

"But he may not have lost it," Dumbledore said.

"That is true," said Severus, taking a step to the side that would look restless to Dumbledore. In reality, he was arranging himself in a position optimal to the Legilimency strike, should he have to make it. "But probing in his mind without checking on the presence of that and other wounds would not encourage him to retain his empathy, Headmaster."

Dumbledore looked up at him, with deep sadness in those blue eyes. Severus coiled his Legilimency like a snake and waited.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," the Headmaster whispered. "You know that, Severus."

Old bitterness and old memories tried to rise, of the night when he was told that none of the boys who tried to kill him would be expelled. But Severus pushed it down. Tactics like these were the reason that Dumbledore had managed to rule him for so long. He would remind Severus of how much he'd longed for a friend, and then for how many years he had believed that Dumbledore could and would protect him while he spied on the Dark Lord. But such emotions had no place in him now. They had no reason to be there since the Headmaster had kicked him out of Hogwarts.

They might still hurt. But Severus had risen beyond the simple pain that could be used to manipulate him.

"You never meant any of it," he sneered. "I know how good your intentions are. It costs nothing to have good _intentions._ But to do good—that is not so easy, Albus, now is it?"

The Headmaster's eyes narrowed. "No," he said coolly. "And there is a true difference between believing in the good and acting for it. But however arrogant your behavior to your students, Severus, I would never have imagined that you would try and corrupt Harry." He reached out one hand and put it on the boy's forehead, as if he were testing for a fever. A moment later, he pulled it back with an exclamation. Severus lowered his gaze to Dumbledore's palm. A burn that looked vaguely like a lightning bolt stood out on the skin.

"I gave him the tools he needed to accomplish his task," Severus said calmly, fighting back his laughter. "What you _would_ have done, Headmaster, had ending his suffering been as important to you as giving him a 'childhood.' You had two duties—to keep him safe and to aid him in getting rid of Voldemort—and you failed both." He paused a moment to enjoy the torment those particular words etched across the Headmaster's face. He didn't give himself long, though. The longer they argued like this, the more deeply-entrenched in Harry's mind the changes and twistings from the battle became. "I have saved his life multiple times since December, and _I_ was the one to teach him Legilimency. Who has more earned the title of ally to him?"

"I did fail to keep him safe." Dumbledore squared his shoulders. "You are right about that, Severus. And perhaps it was a mistake to try and give him a childhood while the prophecy hung over his head. But Voldemort is dead now. Harry deserves normality." He put his hand carefully on one side of Potter's head, away from the scar this time, and started to tilt it to make eye contact.

Severus unleashed his own attack.

* * *

Harry was resting, weary from cutting through the thickness that his own mind threw up against him and wary of the pain that struck him each time he did so, when he felt something familiar surge beyond the barrier. He stood up at once, head cocked. He didn't think what he did was exactly listening, but it was close enough to that to make no difference.

Someone past the barrier was using Legilimency. Harry knew it was someone he'd felt before. And since Voldemort was dead, that only left Dumbledore or Snape.

Harry didn't want Dumbledore using Legilimency anywhere near him.

And if it was Snape—well, maybe he was trying to cut through the barrier and help Harry, or wake him up to yell at him. Harry smiled a bit at the thought of that. Doubtless, he had not killed Voldemort quickly enough or in the right way to satisfy Snape, and Snape would sneer at him and say the next Dark Lord, should one come along, would not be so easy.

Immediately after he thought that, he had to close his eyes as a wash of what felt like molten lead passed over him. He wondered if it came from feeling emotions or just doing this much _thinking._

Two things were certain. He couldn't stay behind the barrier, and he _could_ follow the familiar call of the Legilimency.

He went back to work cutting through the flesh, this time aiming directly at the source of the mental push.

* * *

Dumbledore staggered, his shields down in both sheer surprise at the attack and from the necessity of communicating with Potter. Severus threw all he had into the strike, edging it with visions of blades, jags of glass, bits of ice. He wanted Dumbledore to continually snag his mind on one projection or another, and hurt himself long after the initial consequences of the Legilimency should have ceased.

While Dumbledore strained to recover from the strike that had gone almost to the vulnerable core of his mind, Severus snatched Potter from the chair and whisked out of the office.

The moving staircase did not carry him fast enough, and he ran down it. He kept his mind and his body both moving smoothly, refusing to allow them to pause, as he had during some of the times when he'd had to battle Order members or torture Muggles to seem like a loyal Death Eater. Potter was the key to his glory. The Aurors and the Order had seen Severus burn Voldemort's body, but they would still turn against him if they could, using their fear to justify their vengeance. They could claim he would take any opportunity to whitewash his mistakes. Severus needed Potter to explain that he had done far more than simply snatch a chance passing in front of him.

And, too, he needed time and privacy to ensure that Potter's mind had not taken enough damage to leave him a drooling vegetable.

* * *

The Legilimency ceased too quickly to be a reliable guide, leaving Harry irritated. He could feel faint movement now, though, and guessed his body was being carried. Perhaps Snape had a Portkey?

The desire to _know_ was too great. He simply couldn't remain like this, any more than he'd been able to hesitate while he fought Voldemort. He had summoned his determination then and done the impossible, and this was only a shield that his own mind had created, one he'd weakened by his constant cutting and chopping.

_Open!_ he cried at the barrier with all his strength, and strode forwards through the river of agony that immediately poured in from the other side.

* * *

Severus had just reached the Hogsmeade road when Potter stirred in his arms and gave a faint sound which would probably have been a scream had he had the strength to voice it.

"A moment, Potter," Severus said calmly, and then formed a clear image of St. Mungo's in his mind so that he might Apparate them both there. By now, the Minister should have had time to discover that Dumbledore hadn't brought Harry anywhere near the hospital. Severus was quite clearly going to appear in front of several Healers as Potter's protector and defender, so that Dumbledore would have a much harder time claiming Severus was in the wrong.

They arrived just outside the front doors of the hospital, and Severus took a moment to lower his head and make eye contact with Potter.

The boy seemed to know what he wanted instinctively, and dropped his shields. Of course, his shields were so tattered and ripped already that it didn't take much of an effort, but Severus tried to ignore that as he stared into the boy's eyes.

The ground of his mind was trampled, cut, and furrowed in so many new ways that Severus was faintly surprised the boy was conscious; he should have passed out again from the pain. But then, he had expected that. Most were minor wounds in and of themselves, probably only affecting one memory or one sensation, and would heal with time, as long as the boy remained around people who could remind him of those memories or sensations. Severus was most interested in Potter's empathy, and so he pressed on.

It was retained.

Just.

Severus hissed under his breath. The boy was sane, with the calm of indifference keeping him so. But a miniscule strip of thought joined his empathy to the rest of his mind, and it could be snapped far too easily—either by someone interfering recklessly with his thoughts, as the Headmaster might have done, or by his friends pushing and cajoling him to return their affection and act like a "normal" Gryffindor before he was ready.

Severus himself could not give Potter the emotion he needed to restore that empathy, and Granger and Weasley were far too dangerous. But in such a case, there was one kind of affection that worked wonders: the gentle, unconditional love of an animal.

"Potter," he said.

The boy drifted back from whatever passive place he'd occupied while Severus inspected his mind, and said, "Yes, sir?" The faintness of his words was the only sign of the suffering he probably went through, Severus noted clinically. Good. That would make this easier.

"You have an owl, correct?"

"Yes," said Potter, his face brightening slightly. "Hedwig. She's a snowy."

"Is there anyone at Hogwarts you trust to send her to you, no questions asked, and no trying to follow her?" Severus did not dare venture back to the school yet himself, and one of Potter's friends would probably insist on sending a letter that it would be suicide at the moment for the boy to read.

"Yes," said Harry. "Hagrid. He gave her to me."

Severus did not relish the thought of writing to the oaf, but it was far better than trying to go through the Headmaster or a thoughtless adolescent. And Merlin knew the half-giant was fond of Harry. "Very well," he said. "I will send him a letter, and ask him to return her with his reply. You need her here."

He expected Potter to ask why, but the boy simply said, "All right." He seemed to take nothing but calm interest in his surroundings, and had he not been aware of the state of his mind, Severus would have found that reassuring.

He shook his head and entered St. Mungo's with a swift step. The Healers would have to be carefully prepared so that they spoke to Potter in the same brisk, logical way, and did not try to press on his emotions before the owl arrived. Severus was confident he could attain a level of anger that would suitably impress them.

And he could devote some of his own time to staying with the boy and making sure no one did anything stupid, if only to safeguard his future investment.


	44. The Recluse and the Glory Hound

Thank you again for the reviews yesterday!

_Chapter 44--The Recluse and the Glory-Hound_

Rufus grimaced and carefully placed his weight on the bad leg. It seemed that he could walk on it again, as long as he didn't strain himself, or run, or try to climb stairs, or sleep in an awkward position that would strain the muscles. The Healer had warned him sternly when he complained that the curse used to open the wound could linger; either he took the proper care of his leg, or he returned to St. Mungo's and spent a month or so off his feet. The Healer who had tended him had looked as if she would be happy to inconvenience him personally.

So, now that _that_ was settled, Rufus could finally, finally go see about Potter and Snape.

He'd heard Healers making oddly subdued noise about Harry Potter's arrival; apparently Snape had forbidden any contact of a certain kind with the patient. It didn't surprise Rufus that Potter had taken wounds in the battle which required cautious care, but he was a bit startled that he'd heard nothing of Dumbledore. Had the Headmaster left again already? Was he talking to the press? Rufus knew it was a role he'd handled often during the First War, but that was largely because the Minister at the time was less than competent at it.

He made his way to the part of the hospital where Potter was said to be, and prudently knocked on the door before he tried to open it. Snape's cold voice called, "Enter," and Rufus did, only to find himself on the wrong side of the man's wand.

He raised an eyebrow. Snape nodded, but didn't lower the wand. Rufus was reminded of some brooding, vigilant stone lion, like the ones his older brother used to delight in telling him stories about. They were loyal unto death once made, and would never leave their owners, but they would also prevent help from reaching them; some people had bled to death with the lion in between them and their Healers.

_Time to find out what kind of protector Snape is. _"Where's Dumbledore?" he asked aloud.

Snape flicked him a whip-thin smile. "At Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?" Rufus repeated, narrowing his eyes. A stream of irritation washed through him. He'd looked forward to discussing the proper management of the press buzz about the battle with the Headmaster. "And why would he be there?"

Snape said softly, "Because that is where he took Potter. He intended to meddle in the boy's mind- dim his memories of the battle, with the stated goal of letting him be more 'normal.'" Snape rolled his eyes, but though it might have looked only like annoyance on the surface, Rufus could see true, simmering anger beneath that. "I guessed the truth and took him away. Dumbledore will try again, assuredly." His eyes abruptly narrowed. "That is why I want a guard of Aurors around Potter's bed at all times. I cannot always be here."

"You think you have the right to demand that?"

"I think I have the right to demand nearly anything I want," Snape said levelly, "after I obliged you by helping to burn Voldemort's body."

Rufus, though it took him a moment to realize it in his shock over hearing Snape say You-Know-Who's name, realized he had a point. Snape was the hero who had trained Potter- at least, he would be if Potter's story corroborated his when Rufus spoke with the young man- and who had dared to go up to the duel between the two great enemies and perform a task no one else would have done. He could have most anything he wanted, now.

Rufus changed tactics. "You do realize that, if Dumbledore comes into the hospital and attempts to take the boy, my Aurors can do little to stop him? The Headmaster's the most magically powerful wizard in Britain."

Snape's smile turned strange. "I think not," he said.

"You're saying- _you're _more powerful?" Rufus worked to keep the horror from his voice. "Or he is?" He looked at the still, silent Potter.

"That is not what I mean at all." Snape leaned back in his chair. "Dumbledore has husbanded his strength for a long time. He can act openly, yes, but when he does, he is responsible for his actions. He has preferred the shadows and manipulations. He has not wanted to confront his accusers directly. Now, why is that? Surely his power, and even his reputation, would let him withstand many public storms without a qualm. Yet he avoided them." Snape was giving a truly horrible smile now, and Rufus hoped that he never prompted one like it himself. "I think my old employer has come to have a deadly fear of being proved wrong, of having done something that could be considered objectionable by _someone_. If he acts, he might not do right, and he hungers endlessly to do right. So he has delayed acting, and delayed, and delayed. One cannot do that forever without consequences. I believe he will come and try to tamper with Potter's mind if left alone. But if there is company, he will slink away like the coward he is, because they might see him fail."

Rufus stood still. He wasn't sure he agreed with _everything_ Snape said, but it _was_ odd, now that he thought of it, that Dumbledore had never acted openly when he so obviously disagreed with many things the Ministry did. He hadn't even acted openly when Cornelius put Dolores Umbridge in the school last year, and surely he should have.

"That's pathetic," he said aloud.

"It rather is," agreed Snape, with a tone of vicious amusement in his voice.

Rufus shook his head. "If that's true, then yes, Potter can have as many Aurors as he needs." He looked back at the boy in the bed, and then decided that his earlier assessment had been right. _No boy. A young man now._

As he watched, Potter's eyes blinked open, and then he sat up. "Minister," he murmured. "What can I do for you?"

Rufus studied Potter for a moment. The calm tone of voice was the same he remembered from the days Potter was plotting suicide, but the shadows in his gaze had gone. What was left was—well, it rather reminded Rufus of some of the battlefields he'd seen in the First War, where too many curses had been cast. The ground was blighted, blasted, far too open to the sunlight. Something might someday grow there again, but for now there was no hope of that.

Potter seemed sane, though, or at least aware of his surroundings, so Rufus dared to ask his question. "Did Professor Snape help and train you during the lead-up to the battle with You-Know-Who?"

Potter's face cleared at once. "There's some _question_ of that?" He sounded as if nothing could be more ridiculous. He snorted, then leaned back on the pillows and put one hand gingerly to his head as if the simple sound had hurt him. Snape murmured something, but Potter ignored him. "Of course he did. Without him, I wouldn't have got the training in Legilimency I needed, nor the idea for my battle plans. He's not _responsible _for what I did, sir, but he's responsible for the fact that I didn't fail, and that I finally saw what my responsibility to the wizarding world entailed."

Someone else might doubt him, Rufus thought, but he could not. The measured tone of voice, the firmness, were the same kind of emotions that had shown through the letter Potter sent him. Severus Snape had emerged from this war a hero.

He had still been a Death Eater, and a Dark wizard. That meant Rufus didn't _like_ it that he was a hero, and thought it rather more likely Snape had simply snatched the first chance he saw passing him by. But the truth was the truth, however much he might dislike it, and he would fight to have others acknowledge it.

_I want company in my disgust, _he thought. "And is it true that Dumbledore turned on you?"

Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't call what he did turning on me, sir. He tried to manipulate my mind. Voldemort did that, and Professor Snape did that in the course of my training, and I learned to do it." His gaze was calm. "I don't trust him, but I certainly wouldn't insist on his arrest."

Rufus thought of the parchment sitting in the desk beside his bed, the list of abuses that Potter had been subject to in his Muggle relatives' home. Even that would probably not destroy Dumbledore's reputation completely, but it would make an enormous dent.

If Potter did not want him arrested, though, Rufus himself wouldn't press the issue. Merlin knew he had enough to take care of.

"I'll give you Aurors," he told Snape, since Potter's eyes had slipped shut again. "Besides Dumbledore, is there anyone who shouldn't be permitted entrance?"

Snape smirked at him and pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket. "I have made your task much easier," he said, handing it over. "These are the only people who _should_ be allowed near Potter. Everyone else must be kept away."

Rufus considered the list and raised his eyebrows. His name was on it, and Snape's, and the names of two Healers. "His friends can enter?" he asked, lowering his voice as Potter's breathing softened into sleep.

"If you want him mad, deprived of the ability to understand the emotions of others, and capable of using his Legilimency in any manner he sees fit, why yes, then by all means," Snape said caustically.

Rufus winced. "I'll have Alastor keep them away."

"The Aurors must remain outside the room most of the time," Snape said. "The ones inside should not speak to him unless they are sure they can be calm and reasonable."

Rufus motioned Snape towards the door. "Will he recover?"

"With _time_, yes, he can." Snape folded his arms. "His mind acquired enough resiliency under my training to stand even the wounds he received. What would _not_ make him able to recover is being treated like a celebrity immediately, or being made to face Granger and Weasley and act like the friend they remember, or being turned into a favorite pet by Dumbledore."

"All the things that people will most want to do to him?"

Snape sneered. "All the things that people will most want to do to the person they _remember_ him as," he said. "But that boy is dead, Minister. If you cannot see that Potter has changed, even in the short time you have known him, I despair for your intelligence."

Rufus worked hard to keep his face from filling with pity. He had the feeling Snape would despise it as much as Potter did himself. "He is marked."

"He has been marked for fifteen years." Snape made a dismissive flicking motion of his fingers. "But that impress only made him the wizarding world's darling. _These_ scars make him his own person, unfit to be molded into their neat little patterns."

A dark, savage fire burned in the back of Snape's eyes as he finished saying that. Rufus thought it odd that this man, who by all accounts had hated Potter and mistreated him when they were at school, took such a satisfaction in his change now. Perhaps it was merely the camaraderie of bitter brothers-in-arms, however.

"Someone will have to speak to the press," Rufus warned. "They won't accept just my word that—" He paused, and then forced the name past his lips. "_Voldemort_ is dead."

"I am willing to leave and do that," Snape said easily, "as soon as your Aurors arrive."

_And they'll listen to him, _Rufus thought, certain of that. _He does have a flair for the dramatic. He can tell them exactly the story they want to hear, and it will be no surprise that it makes him the hero._

At the moment, though, with Potter so heavily scarred, Rufus was just as pleased to have help in fending off the inevitable accusations that the Ministry was hiding something. And, far away on the horizon of his mind, he felt something else—an emotion that would only be enhanced when Snape stood beside him.

_He's really gone. They really did it. We're really free._

* * *

Severus stood in the reception area of St. Mungo's, where the crowd of reporters had gathered, and gloated.

The hostile stares and half-frightened glances had diminished as the Minister related precisely what had occurred, and how the white flame had burned Voldemort's body. Of course, more than half the reporters had probably not believed him, but when Severus corroborated the story, adding a few little details that Scrimgeour would have been unaware of from so far away, the looks had started to become ones of awe. Even more than the fact that he was a hero, Severus knew, that came from the fact that _he_ had been the one to truly confirm that Voldemort was dead, instead of simply telling the story of the battle. The good news reflected well on its messenger.

And if some of the details he added had been inventive flourishes of his own, well, who was to know?

Questions came thick and fast: about Potter's health, about how many Death Eaters remained free, about how Scrimgeour intended to make the announcement to wizarding Britain at large. And then a tall woman with a confidential smile took a small step away from the rest of them and addressed Severus.

"And you?" she asked. "What do you plan to do, Professor Snape?"

She certainly would not have cared if he had not risked his life, Severus thought. But he had, and now the rewards were coming to him. Protection from prosecution alone was once more than he would have expected. Now, he could revel in everything else he had earned.

"For the moment, remain in St. Mungo's Hospital," he said, carefully concealing his glee. "I am Potter's mentor, the one who trained him for the part he performed in the final battle, and he will need my help in recovering from his injuries, which are mostly due to Voldemort's very impressive Legilimency."

The reporter winced away from him, but looked even more awestricken a moment later—because he had said the Dark Lord's name, Severus suspected. "You were his mentor?" she asked, latching onto the fact she had not known before. "How _interesting._" Her quill poised above her scroll as she looked at him expectantly.

With a keen sense of how very much he deserved her admiration, Severus began to tell his story.

* * *

"Harry?"

Harry slowly opened his eyes. He'd been drifting in one of the light meditative trances that had become almost normal for him in the last few hours, but he recognized the name of the Healer who had visited him once before. "Hello, Healer Thorn," he said.

Thorn nodded and came a few steps further into the room. He was a heavy man with broad shoulders, thick eyebrows, and deepset dark eyes. Harry thought he would have found him intimidating if not for the kindness in his face, and the thoughts of Healing and help that danced near the surface of his mind.

Well, that, and the fact that Harry didn't find _anything_ intimidating anymore.

"You have a visitor," said Healer Thorn, and shifted so that Harry could see a white owl sitting on his shoulder.

"Hedwig?"

In a moment, the air blurred with her wings as she leaped off the Healer, flew across the room, and landed on Harry's chest, alternating frantic coos of relief with nips and bites to his chin and ears that made Harry laugh. He raised a hand and stroked it down her feathers, feeling himself relax. With Ron or Hermione here, he would have had to avoid their eyes so he didn't read their thoughts, and maintain a conscious façade so they didn't see how much he'd changed. But Hedwig was just Hedwig. He had nothing to hide from her.

Hedwig leaped about him, her coos having become half-screeches, her wings buffeting his head gently, so that he was never hurt. Finally, when Harry just lay there and stroked her instead of trying to run away, she settled firmly between his right arm and his chest, tucked her head under his, and seemed to have no intention of moving.

Healer Thorn had left. Harry was glad. Now that Hedwig was with him, the room seemed a little brighter and airier, where the presence of another person would have made it oppressive.

Snape had explained everything to him already, in short, simple words. Harry stood a chance of recovering, but not if he were continually pressed by the people who would expect something else out of him. He should stay in St. Mungo's for at least a few weeks.

And he would never be the same person he had been.

Perhaps it was just because of the distance from his own emotions, but Harry had already accepted that. The harder thing was deciding how much of an act he would put on before Ron, Hermione, the other Weasleys, and the rest of the school. Of course he was going back to Hogwarts. He didn't feel very much like completing his education right now, but Snape assured him he probably would as the pieces of his mind reintegrated and underused facets of his personality reemerged. The old Harry Potter had been transformed, not Vanished and replaced with a new one.

Would he lie to them? Act well? Convince them, as much as possible, that the old boy stood in his place?

_No._

It was a decision tinged with sadness in some ways, and the understanding that Ron and Hermione would have a difficult time accepting it. But Harry didn't care. He had passed the point where he could repress his own desires and devote himself entirely to other people—probably because his Legilimency training had required him to so deeply _know_ himself, and realize that most of him wasn't evil. He had his own monstrous instincts, of course, but seeing them in action had given him a clearer perspective than many other people who only dreamed of dark deeds and never dreamed they could actually _commit_ them. He had been exposed to truth with no chance to turn away.

Now, he refused to lie about what he was.

If Ron and Hermione wanted his friendship, they could have it, but on _his_ terms. He wouldn't apologize for acting differently, for being a Legilimens, for taking time to respond to the old jokes and the old concerns. He could compromise, but not about that. If they expected the old Harry Potter back, they could go away.

Hedwig gave a disapproving hoot, as much to say that he should stop thinking and go to sleep.

With his thinking completed, Harry did.


	45. Self Assertion

Thanks for the reviews yesterday! If the story goes as I'm planning, there should be six or seven more chapters, perhaps eight, counting this one.

_Chapter 45—Self-Assertion_

Harry woke with a gasp, and then closed his eyes again, while digging his fingers into the sheets beneath him.

He forced himself to _feel_ them, the slightly coarse grain as it slid past his fingertips, how they bunched and half-trapped his hand when he tried to move it, the coil around his legs that _could not_ resemble the coil of the current in Voldemort's mind no matter what his brain said. After a few minutes, he relaxed, and though he knew the smile on his face was grim, he felt satisfied.

His nightmares had not returned to the moment when he nearly dissolved himself in attempting to kill Voldemort, to his surprise, but to the moment when the wave of sensory deprivation had swept over him. He would be locked in darkness, unable to see or hear or feel, and his screams were going unheard. But he refused to have a torch or lamp or lighted wand left in his room, though it would have probably helped to ease the nightmares. He had to outlast them, get used to them, and accept that he'd probably always have them in some form. Already, he thought, he was getting better. He hadn't screamed since that first night, and the sheets were enough to reassure him when he woke, without the light. Nor did the dreams last as long. Before, he had struggled for what felt like hours in the trap, but now he could locate a "door" and open it back to wakefulness in a few minutes.

"You will not have any power over me," he whispered to his dead enemy.

"Speaking to your imaginary friends again, Mr. Potter?"

Harry started, and then silently made fun of himself in his head when he turned to face Snape, who sat in a chair next to his bed. _And for your next trick, you can sense when someone actually comes into the room._

"Professor," he said.

Snape flicked his wand, by the motion of a shadowy hand that Harry had to squint to make out, and then his face lit with the reflected radiance of a _Lumos._ Leaning back in the chair, the man murmured, "I am curious as to why you will not allow the simple expedient of a light, Potter. It would make your recovery from these nightmares easier."

Harry shrugged, and shifted along the pillows, letting himself feel the texture of those, too, and fully understand he was back in the world outside his head. "You were the one who said I ought to be careful about what influences I exposed myself to in these first few weeks, because some of them could become permanent fixtures of my mind if I didn't watch out. And if I got used to sleeping with a light spell, then my friends would ask questions when I went back to Gryffindor Tower."

Snape was silent for a long moment. Harry glanced at him. "What?" he added. "Is that not true?"

"It is true." Snape scanned him again, as if he were looking for physical wounds. The intense, cold objectivity with which he examined Harry's mind each morning was entirely different. "I am still wondering if you have fully considered your decision to return to Hogwarts. What can they teach you that you can still learn?"

Harry laughed a little. He wasn't sure if Snape's scorn was for him or for Hogwarts's curriculum, but either way, he enjoyed hearing it. That was another thing he had taken care to make part of his life: a constant source of criticism and contempt. Merlin knew he would probably feel some of that when he got back to Hogwarts, either from the "good" people once they learned the full truth or from people who would want to know why he hadn't killed Voldemort earlier, and Snape was good practice. Few people would be able to say anything as cutting as he could. "Mostly, subjects for my N.E.W.T.'s that _aren't _related to cutting people apart," he said. "Charms, Herbology, Transfiguration." He shifted again, and then relaxed and nodded. Yes, it had taken less time than the night before for his shoulders to drop out of their cramped posture. _Good. _"And I need to talk to my friends again, and the other Gryffindors. You know that."

He almost thought Snape had decided not to respond to a thought so banal, and his eyelids had started to fall shut when the man spoke again. "And is returning to Gryffindor Tower the wisest thing you could have done?"

Harry opened one eye. "It may have escaped you, sir, perhaps because you got along with me, but it _is_ my House."

"You have changed." Snape continued in a smooth voice before Harry could snap at him, in turn, for saying something so obvious. "You are the Boy-Who-Killed-Voldemort—" a grimace said how ridiculous he found that title, a sentiment with which Harry privately agreed "—and you can have anything you ask for. I was simply wondering whether, under the circumstances, a transfer to Slytherin House would not be best."

* * *

Severus saw Potter's head twitch. _So he truly had not considered it, then. _A bubble of irritation at the boy's stupidity grew in his chest. On certain things, Potter was properly careful with himself, following Severus's advice and allowing his mind to heal at its own pace. But sometimes he would ignore an obvious improvement, and Severus could not tell why he was so wise and so stupid at once. 

"I'm a Gryffindor," Potter said quietly.

"That need not matter. No, it is not common to send a student of one House to another, but it has been done before, for safety." Severus himself remembered one girl who had been transferred out of Slytherin into Ravenclaw after it became widely known that she'd refused the Dark Mark and her mother was Muggleborn. "And you will not fit in with the Gryffindors again."

The infuriating boy only shrugged. "There's no way I can know that until I try, Professor."

"Do you deny that you have more Slytherin qualities in you than you suspected?"

"Of course not. That would be denying the truth, and I have been trying not to do that." Potter gave him a faint smile, but his eyes were directed inwards. Severus wondered when the boy would realize that he did not need to come to terms with every bloody revelation about himself alone. Some of that _should _be his forcing _other_ people to come to those terms, and treat him the way he asked to be treated. It was an advantage that Severus would have taken care of, in his position, and got other people used to accepting long before the question of his returning to Hogwarts ever arose. "But I don't _know_ what the other Gryffindors are going to do. They might be permanently horrified by what I am, and they might accept it in a few weeks."

"You would be happier in Slytherin House," Severus said sharply. _Did the boy not think? _"And your happiness during these next few weeks is of no small consideration, as a gentle way to strengthen your empathy again."

Abruptly, Potter's eyes sparked, and he sat up in the bed. Severus leaned back with one eyebrow raised. So, he was more completely recovered in body than Healer Thorn had reported. Perhaps the Healer had been wrong, but Severus did not think so. It was far more likely that Potter had hidden his strength from the man, instinctively disliking to reveal his advantages all at once.

It only increased Severus's conviction that Potter's trying to return to his old life was doomed to failure.

"And what is there for me in Slytherin?" Potter demanded. "No friends. No one who will be happy about what I did, unless it's in that false smile they'll be forced to present in public. No familiar places, which you said was important in the next few weeks, too. The sneers and shock of my friends, who of course would expect me to come back to my old House." He shook his head. "It might be the better fit for the way my mind is now, sir, but it won't be the best fit for the whole of me."

"And if Gryffindor is not, either?" Severus had hoped, with the power he had over Potter, that he would be able to persuade the boy to go to Slytherin. Yes, it was true he would have few friends there, but that would give him the chance to focus on _himself_, and reintegrate his mind even further. The students might disapprove of him, but no one would dare to hurt him, particularly since they knew he was a Legilimens. And with Slughorn as his Head of House, Potter would receive all the fawning and special attentions that he could ask for.

Severus himself would not be returning to the school to teach, but beginning a lucrative career as a Potions master at Bolthole. That meant he could not be nearby to soothe the inevitable temper tantrums and explosions that would result from Potter's immersion in Gryffindor.

It was not that he was _worried_ for the boy. Potter could take care of himself. But he could not always prevent his Legilimency from seeking other minds, and that was what Severus thought would be the hardest thing for his friends to accept. At least, in Slytherin, once the other students saw how the situation stood, they would adapt themselves to the realities of power, and do what they could to ease Potter's transition.

Harry had the nerve to shrug at him. "I don't expect Gryffindor to be _perfect._ But I'm going to try it."

"You may lose control."

"Then that will be _my_ fault." Potter's green eyes flashed, and Severus realized, with a start, that this was where some of the banked emotions he had missed at the surface of Potter's mind had been going. "I should have learned self-control by now, don't you think, sir, after you worked so hard to teach it to me? I have to have that, or I'm nothing. No mater what jeers and taunts I might receive—and I think as many of them will come from Slytherin as from Gryffindor—I have to be able to ignore them. They're only the words of children who think they're cruel." He paused, and then gave Severus an abrupt smile. "Not one of them will have your skill in insulting me, sir."

Severus shook his head. Potter was imitating Dumbledore in his resolution to ignore certain things that should not be ignored. "And have you thought about your future beyond your seventh year?"

"What I want to become, you mean?" Potter shook his head. "Not really."

"You should have." Severus leaned forward. "With as many dangerous skills as you now possess, you cannot simply expect to find a place in the world waiting for you. They will shut as many doors as they open, in this particular combination. The reputation of the Boy-Who-Lived will help you with most of that, but not with everything."

Potter's eyes flashed again, and Severus felt the instinctive dash of a Legilimency probe against his shields. He sat back, raising an eyebrow. Potter's offensive magic had become stronger. Now that it was no longer involved solely in rebuilding his mind, it had grown deeply rooted and twined around his thoughts. In a few years, Severus thought the boy would be able to read most people's thoughts with a simple gaze.

"You were the one who told me I should not strain my mind with such matters. _Sir._" Potter made a slashing motion with his hand. "I have concentrated on recovering first, and planning my future out last. If I didn't survive these past few weeks, I wouldn't have had a future in any case. And I tell you, I can't know what I'll want until I start living that life. You've given me a lot of very valuable advice, but I won't plan my life out to suit you. _Sir. _I am _not_ a pawn."

Severus allowed a moment to pass, so that the boy's declaration could have the proper reception, and then murmured, "That is only another reason why Slytherin would make the best House for you."

But, inside, he felt a peculiar respect. He would certainly have despised Potter the more if the boy had accepted his suggestions without flinching.

* * *

Harry shrugged again. He could feel impatience bubbling up in him, and he spent a few moments thinking about the likely consequences of trying to hit Snape with Legilimency until he was calm again. He had noticed that impatience was the emotion most likely to unsettle the volatile joinings of his mind, and tear the pieces apart into scattered fragments again. That gave him both a literal and metaphorical headache. He'd done too much work recovering himself, losing only a few memories to the void, to shatter everything with a bit of anger. 

When he thought he could respond without trying to drag Snape's Occlumency shields apart, he said, "I could never trust the Slytherins. I would always be watching for someone to stab me in the back."

"And you do not think that would happen among your _friends_?" Snape demanded, as if Harry had stung his old prejudices against Gryffindor into life.

Harry laughed, startling even himself. It _was_ cleansing laughter, rather like the half-chuckle he'd uttered when he realized he could no longer remember much of anything about Gilderoy Lockhart. "It could, but they're more obvious about it. I'll see them maneuvering." He softened his voice. "And I do trust them more, and I'll be more at ease among them. I see what you're saying, sir, but I want to finish out this school year in Gryffindor Tower."

"And the next?" Snape pressed.

"That, I don't know about." Harry leaned back thoughtfully. "If this year goes well, then yes, I'll stay in Gryffindor and take my N.E.W.T's. But if something bad happens—I don't know. What other options do I have, sir? Besides Slytherin, which is not going to happen in this lifetime."

Snape's face shut. Harry studied him intently for a moment. He had the oddest feeling, based, maybe, on instinctive Legilimency and long knowledge of his teacher's mind, that Snape had been about to say something and then cut himself off.

"You have the option of bringing to light your treatment at your Muggle relatives' home," Snape said finally. "Without that, it is likely that the Headmaster will try to force you to return for another summer, or at least until you are seventeen, the age of wizarding majority."

Harry blinked. "Why in the world would he force me to do that?" he asked, genuinely bewildered. "He knows, now, that he can't just control me, and that I'll be watching for his manipulations."

Snape sneered at him. "You underestimate Dumbledore's desire to do what he thinks is right, and especially to make up for mistakes. He will think he should still grant you a 'happy' childhood. He believes distance from the wizarding world helped you when you were a boy, and he may believe it now."

Harry sighed. "If he tries to force me, it's his loss."

"You could bring the information to light now, and prevent the contest," Snape suggested. "Dumbledore will not risk such a dent on his public reputation as a guiding, shining light."

"No," Harry said firmly. "I'd rather not alienate him that way, and have a committed enemy in Hogwarts instead of someone who thinks he's doing good for me. Things _may_ work out badly, with both him and my friends, but I want a chance to see what's going to happen without my trying to mastermind everything."

Snape rose to his feet with a sharp motion that Harry thought was the bodily equivalent of a shout. "You fool," he hissed. "Do you not understand that you _must _mastermind things from now on? You have two choices, and only two. Either you reveal what you are and take precautions to ensure that no one can hurt you for it, or you spend the rest of your days pretending you have not changed."

"The last isn't possible."

"Then _make your plans._"

"No," Harry said quietly, and held up a hand when Snape opened his mouth. "Please let me finish." He didn't give the man a true choice, since he continued immediately. "I can't expect everyone else to change just because I did. Showing up, swaggering around, and announcing that my friends can't understand me will make Ron and Hermione upset. I don't _want_ them upset, sir. I want to try and revive my friendship with them if I can. There are things I won't compromise on, like my Legilimency."

"You _cannot_ compromise on that," Snape muttered. "You will use it for the rest of your life."

Harry inclined his head in a little nod. "But there are some things I can compromise on, like spending time with them and being a friend to them as well as expecting them to be friends to me. Isn't that really the best training to ensure I don't lose my empathy, sir? Withdrawing completely won't help, you told me that, or I could just stay here in St. Mungo's." Snape scowled, as if regretting that he'd ever told Harry he would need to become used to crowds of people around him sooner or later. "I'll manipulate them, and Dumbledore, if I have to. But I don't want to go in doing so. Even when I was preparing to commit suicide, it made me uncomfortable, and I kept promising myself that it didn't matter because I'd die soon and spare them further pain. I made mistakes because of that. What I want now is to _live_, and that doesn't include hiding what I am _or_ scrambling constantly to fix my mistakes because I'm not perfect at making people dance like puppets on strings. The one life I want to completely control is my own."

Snape stared at him with narrowed eyes. Harry stared calmly back. What he wanted would happen with or without Snape's approval, of course, but he was curious to see what the man would say.

* * *

It was not the _Slytherin_ thing to do, and that caused Severus to want to reject Potter's course immediately. 

On the other hand…

Potter had come to knowledge of himself more harshly and more quickly than any of his yearmates. And a realistic assessment of his weaknesses—of his own distaste for manipulation, say, which itself would help sabotage his success at it—was better than his going confidently into a situation he could not handle.

Severus thought Potter would find Dumbledore and his friends less amenable to the changes than he supposed. But the only way to show him that was to let him live out the mistakes. And _perhaps_ the boy was right. Severus certainly could not have endured such a situation. But Potter was a Gryffindor.

Still, when the end of the term came, Severus thought Potter would regret not pressing Dumbledore on the matter of his relatives. But the best thing to do in that situation was to hold himself ready to benefit, and Severus had already devised a way to do so.

"Very well, Potter," he said, as carelessly as he could. "If you really believe this mad plan will work—"

"It's not mad," said Potter calmly. "That's why it stands a chance. And I don't know it will, I only think it might."

Severus nodded slowly again. "Then I will come one more time tomorrow, and wish you farewell."

"Thank you, sir." Potter's gaze sharpened. "You needn't think I'll forget what I owe you. I know it's multiple life debts, and you were the one who helped teach me about freedom and self-control, instead of mindlessly sacrificing myself to a cause. I won't forget," he repeated.

Severus felt his frustration melt away into a glow of harsh satisfaction. He was not sure what felt best—having James Potter's son owe him such a debt, or his student acknowledge that his teaching had done him good. He nodded regally. "Someday, I will collect it."

Potter didn't bother responding, but simply shut his eyes. Severus watched him closely for a moment, and then doused the _Lumos._

As before, he stood ready to do what no one else could when Potter faltered, as he inevitably must. And this time, he would have both the immediate advantages of the fallout _and_ the satisfaction that came from being able to tell Potter that he'd told him so.


	46. Memory Be Green

Thank you for the reviews!

The title of this chapter comes from a quote in _Hamlet._

_Chapter 46—Memory Be Green_

Strangely enough, walking through the crowd of reporters, Aurors, and ordinary witches and wizards gathered outside St. Mungo's, and the second crowd in front of Hogwarts, wasn't all that hard. It probably helped that a few weeks had passed since his defeat of Voldemort.

Still, people pressed forwards with adoring expressions on their faces. Harry found it unnerving, and was glad that he'd missed the first flush of the apparent need to claim him as a hero.

Hands touched his robes sometimes, and cameras flashed until the afterimages nearly blinded him, and requests for interviews followed him until Harry was certain he would wake up in the night repeating, "Just a few questions, Mr. Potter, over here!" But he looked straight ahead and kept walking, and the crowds, though they still cheered, didn't impede his progress. Maybe the look on his face intimidated them. Maybe they lost interest when they saw he wasn't going to perform any miracles.

Harry could almost have wished for their presence when he crossed through the gates into the courtyard outside Hogwarts, though. What seemed like most of Gryffindor House waited there, along with Dumbledore.

Harry's eyes found Ron and Hermione at once. They stood slightly in front of the others, staring at him. Harry thought Hermione was holding her breath, though he couldn't be sure when twenty feet separated them.

He smiled.

He knew it was a reserved and uncertain smile, but that didn't appear to discourage Ron and Hermione. They gave a sudden shout and broke into a run at him. Harry controlled the instinctive attempt of his hand to dive for his wand and the coil of Legilimency in the back of his mind. He _could_ do this. He _wouldn't_ ruin his first day back at Hogwarts by attacking his friends.

They both grabbed him at once. Harry gave a little grunt and rocked on his heels. He'd swear Ron had grown another two inches in the months since Harry had seen him, and the hug he gave was correspondingly painful. Hermione embraced him more gently, but still with a ferocity that said she wouldn't let him go soon.

Harry felt his hope rise a little. If they had missed him this much, perhaps they'd be able to put up with what he needed to explain to them about his Legilimency and the change in the composition of his mind.

The rest of the Gryffindors surrounded them, chattering endlessly, and other students were spilling out the doors of the school, cheering. Harry flicked his wand and murmured, "_Muffliato_," a handy spell Snape had taught him.

The people nearest them would promptly hear nothing but a buzzing noise in their ears, Harry knew. That would keep them from overhearing the conversation he intended to have with Ron and Hermione.

"Welcome home, Harry," Hermione whispered, sounding a little choked up.

Harry patted her shoulder, pulled back, and smiled at Ron. Ron seemed to become aware in the same moment of the length of time he'd been holding Harry. He flushed, and let him go with a little cough.

"It's good to be back at Hogwarts," Harry said. And it was, if only because nothing horrible had happened so far. "Listen, can I talk to you after whatever celebration McGonagall has planned? There are things that you need to hear before anyone else in the school does."

"What is it?" Ron stood a little straighter, and narrowed his eyes, as if he thought Harry would try to pull another suicide attempt on them.

"Nothing like what I did before I left," Harry said, feeling distantly amused. _There's nothing I want to do more right now than live. I just don't know if anyone else will be content to step aside and let me do it. _"But I've changed while I was gone, and you should know about that."

Hermione nodded promptly, her eyes full of a mixture of worry and curiosity. Ron gave Harry a long look, as though he suspected he wouldn't like whatever he heard, but he nodded, too.

Harry sighed in relief. He would welcome their support, if they could give it. Snape had left for Bolthole, and was unlikely to visit him again, since he was hardly welcome at Hogwarts. Scrimgeour was busy organizing trials, memorial services, press conferences, and everything else needful for the Minister of Magic to do in the event of the fall of a Dark Lord. Harry had become used to their treating him like an adult, and hadn't thought of how much he'd miss it.

_With any luck, I can convince Ron and Hermione to treat me like one._

* * *

A few hours later, when they stared at him and he stared back, Harry didn't know if they'd treat him like an adult. He did know that their friendship had changed, and if they didn't treat him like a stranger, he'd be grateful.

He'd told them the story of everything from the night he first decided to commit suicide and pay his debt to Sirius, excluding only those things that were Snape's or Scrimgeour's secrets to tell, and not his. That meant he'd included the details of his training, the attack on Bellatrix Lestrange, and the way he'd ventured into Voldemort's mind to kill him.

Ron was the first one to break the silence, and his face was nearly unreadable. "You decided that Fred and George could die, as long as you got the chance to kill Bellatrix Lestrange?" he asked calmly.

"Yes," said Harry. "Essentially." He wasn't going to sugar-coat this. Ron and Hermione would have to know the whole truth. It _was_ their choice about how much of that to accept from him, but he wouldn't lie by omission. "We did what we could to keep them safe, such as arranging the attack before their clients arrived. But it was the only site that she might believe mattered to me, other than the Burrow and Hogwarts."

Ron abruptly stood and stalked over to the other side of the Room of Requirement, which resembled a pale copy of the Gryffindor common room right now. Harry watched his back in pity. He would probably feel the same way, assuming he had relatives he cared about, and assuming he'd been able to prevent himself from pursuing the war against Voldemort instead of staying cooped up at Hogwarts.

"I just—" Hermione said.

Harry looked at her. Her face was calm, but he saw her swallowing rapidly, and she looked away from him, blinking again and again. She wanted to argue with Ron, he thought, but that would mean arguing with him, too.

"I suppose," Hermione said, after a few minutes during which Ron remained on the other side of the room and Harry sat in perfectly content silence, "that I want to know _why_ you did this, Harry. There were other options. You mentioned that you thought of summoning Hedwig at one time and talking with us." Her eyes were sober when she finally glanced at him again. "What changed your mind about that? You could have spoken to us, and we could have contradicted that nonsense Snape was pouring into your ears."

"It wasn't nonsense, Hermione," Harry said, as gently as he could. "It was the only way to win the war. Snape—well, I don't think he made a good teacher for me during fifth year, but that was because he and I both still tried to follow the rules. When I tried to kill myself, he decided the rules could be broken, and that meant he did the _effective_ thing. He talked me out of suicide better than any Healer could have. He talked me past my moral dilemmas better than Dumbledore ever did. And he certainly trained me for battle better than sitting in Hogwarts and learning a few spells each week would have. So he's part of the reason, too, that our world is free." Harry planned to bring that up every chance he could. If nothing else, it would be amusing to watch people have to admit Severus Snape was a hero. "So I decided to give up communicating with you because the important thing was to win the battle against Voldemort. That took all my time and energy. Saving some for rebelling against Snape would have been stupid, and hindered his effectiveness in teaching me."

"I thought you cared about something more than effectiveness," Hermione said. Her voice had sharpened. "There's the right and wrong of it, too."

Harry looked intently at her, though he caged his Legilimency when it tried to strike out. "Do you think what I did was wrong? Which parts of it?"

"I do!" Ron exclaimed, spinning around again. His face had gone so red Harry couldn't make out his freckles at all. "Bloody _hell_, Harry! You put my family in danger, and that was wrong!"

"And it's up to you to decide what to do about that," Harry said calmly. His stern control of his temper felt almost unnatural, but he knew he couldn't let his anger fly every which way. That would put his mental stability in far too much danger. "If you want to stop being my friend, you can. If you want to file charges against me, you can—but I don't think the Minister will let them get very far. If you want to hex me, well, there's a limit to how far I'll let you go with that."

Ron threw his hands up in the air. "I don't want to do any of that! I want you to say you're sorry!"

"And I am sorry," Harry said, raising his eyebrows slightly. He hadn't thought it would be so easy to get back on Ron's good side. "I didn't want to do it, and I argued for a long time before I agreed with Snape."

"But—" Ron said, and then stopped, fuming. Harry saw his hands clenching and unclenching, and shifted his posture on the low chair that the Room of Requirement had provided for him. He couldn't afford to be hit by someone of Ron's physical size and strength. He was still recovering physically from some of what he'd undergone during the suicide attempt, though he didn't have to take the potions any longer.

"What do you want?" Harry asked.

"I don't know!"

But Harry thought he did, though he didn't know if that knowledge came from his Legilimency trawling the surface of Ron's thoughts or not. Ron wanted him to feel guilty. The Harry he knew would have. What unnerved him more than the decision Harry had made was his calmness about it, his decision to accept it and move on with his life instead of brooding over it.

_That won't come back, _Harry thought. _Snape showed me how useless guilt is, unless it actually prompts you to do something productive._

"Like I said, Ron," he repeated as calmly as he could, "I can be your friend again. But it won't go back to just what it was, and it'll take _time_. I'm sorry I put Fred and George in danger. If you want me to do something specific to make up for that, I can. But unless—"

"What do you mean, you can be _my_ friend again?" Ron asked incredulously. "Shouldn't _I_ be the one deciding if I still want to be _your_ friend?"

Harry sighed and stood up. He could feel his temper rising, and that tugged on several of the fractures in his mind, threatening to pull it apart at the seams. He didn't want to lose any more memories in a useless fight with Ron. He'd be in Hogwarts until the end of the summer term; Ron knew how to find him.

"That, too," Harry said quietly. "But, really, I've changed so much that I have to think about our friendship. That's all I meant."

Ron looked away from him.

Harry walked to the door of the Room of Requirement, glancing at Ron's averted face a few times on the way. His first friend ever, the friend who'd made a brave sacrifice for him in the chess game during first year, the friend who'd come down into the Chamber of Secrets with him to help save Ginny—

Harry thought the loss should have hurt more than it did.

But his memories _had_ dimmed, his emotions _had_ changed—Snape had explained that as his mind muffling some components of his guilt complex so that he could devote more time to rational thought—and he didn't know if the friendship was lost yet. Give Ron some time, weeks or months, and he might come around, the way he had after the First Task in fourth year. Harry wouldn't call their friendship lost until the day Ron stomped up to him and declared that he wanted nothing more to do with him.

He stepped out of the room and shut the door gently behind him.

Of course, he didn't make it all the way down the corridor before he heard steps coming after him, and Hermione called, "Harry, wait!"

He stopped and leaned against the wall beneath a torch sconce. Hermione had flushed cheeks, and eyes bright with tears, but she reached out and gripped his arm hard enough, nearly, to hurt. Harry winced a bit, but kept his eyes fixed on her face. She had stuck by him in fourth year. Maybe it was going to happen again. He was curious to see if it would, at least.

"I don't think what you did to Ron's family was right or fair," she said. "But I understand why you felt you had to do it." She was staring at him, and Harry bit the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. No matter how tempting it was, he _wasn't_ going to read her thoughts. "I want to talk to you, get you used to being in Gryffindor Tower and Hogwarts again. Will you let me?"

"If you want to," Harry said simply. "But I'd like to limit the amount of time I spend doing that, if it's all the same to you. I have a lot of material from the school year to revise."

"This is more important than schoolwork."

Harry feigned a gasp and put his hand to his cheek. "Hermione! Blasphemy!"

She didn't crack a smile. "Harry, right and wrong _is_ more important than that. I'm not talking about stupid rules. I'm talking about moral ones."

"And so am I." Harry dropped the joking tone, since it wouldn't work. "I don't know if I'm a monster. I suppose I could still become one. But Snape's promised to kill me if that happens, so—"

"How can you _joke_ about that?" Her hands were fists.

"This time, I'm not." Harry blinked. "Really, Hermione. There was a chance I could have lost my sense of right and wrong after the battle with Voldemort, because I stood such a big chance of losing my empathy. So I asked Snape to kill me if that happened, and he said he would."

"That's what's wrong, then," said Hermione, radiating relief. "You still believe him. You're still acting as though he's the source of all that's good and right, and trying to live your life here the way _he_ would live it."

Harry laughed, because he couldn't help himself. "Snape, the source of all good and right? He'd laugh himself sick at hearing that. _Listen_. I was the one who had to make decisions about good and right, and he made them with me. He had to do things like that all the time as a spy among the Death Eaters. I _promise_ I did my best, all right? He wouldn't have let me come back to Hogwarts if he thought I would turn into a monster at any moment."

Hermione patted his hand. "I'll find out what hold he has over you," she told him, and then turned and left, practically running up the corridor towards the library.

Harry stared after her for a moment, feeling helpless. His friends were just being true to themselves, of course. Ron had to clear all the anger out with a storm, and Hermione still believed the answers could be found in books. Over time, they'd probably accept him as he was.

In the meanwhile, he just had to live as best as he could, and show them that this new facet of his personality wasn't going to vanish tomorrow.

Harry sighed as he made his way towards Gryffindor Tower, where celebrating students awaited him. _Well, the memories of our friendship are still there for me, even if the friendship never recovers. _And, after the training Snape had given him, he'd learned how valuable even a memory could be. It was much better than death or insanity, and on that scale, his little spats with Ron and Hermione didn't even register.

He wondered idly how long it would take his friends to realize that he was still thinking on that scale, and probably always would.

* * *

"But you _have_ to." Ron was fighting to control his temper again.

"No, I don't." Harry stared at the Charms textbook in front of him, even though he'd already lost his place.

"The team needs you!"

Harry glanced up with a little smile. "The team only has one more game, Ron. I know you won against Slytherin and Hufflepuff, and easily, at that. Ginny's a good Seeker. You don't need me to come back."

"I want to know why you won't," Ron growled. He had calmed down enough, amazingly, that the chess-player's look that had so distressed Harry when he was trying to commit suicide was back in his eyes. Harry was glad to see it this time. It meant Ron was trying to think instead of simply react.

"Because the physical stress of practice and the excitement would strain my body and mind too much," Harry said plainly, and flipped a page.

"That didn't used to be something you cared about."

"It is now."

Ron didn't respond, but just watched him. He didn't even need the hand that Ginny came up and placed on his arm a moment later, Harry thought.

"Leave it, Ron." Ginny smiled at him. "Harry will come back when he's ready."

Harry nodded to her, grateful both for the support and the fact that, from the look in her eyes, she understood that he might never be ready for Quidditch again. He wondered, and not for the first time since he'd returned to Hogwarts, what effort she'd had to make on her own to reassemble her mind after her possession by Tom Riddle.

Ron studied him a moment more, then abruptly strode from the room. Harry lay back and continued reading.

* * *

"What about this potion?" Hermione turned her book around and tried to make Harry pay attention to one particular set of instructions on the page.

Harry had just Transfigured a pair of scissors into a bird, and was more in the mood for admiring his success than listening to Hermione's conspiracy theories. "He didn't use that on me," he said flatly.

"How can you be sure?" Hermione tapped the book. "You said he fed you all sorts of potions during the recovery process, and you don't know what they were."

"Then how would I recognize this one?" Harry snatched the bird's tail feathers when it started to fly, but it fluttered away anyway, into the rafters of the library. Harry used a discreet Summoning Charm to pull it back to him, and it chirped in surprise as his fingers closed on it.

"Just look at the description of the taste, or the color. Maybe _this _is what he used to control you. There's an antidote for it. We can brew that, and then you can take it and start acting normally again—"

And Harry lost his temper.

He turned around abruptly, and his Legilimency reached out and shot past Hermione's nonexistent shields. Harry took a deep breath. Just _using_ it made him feel wonderful. He hadn't realized how much he'd been suppressing it, mostly by not looking anyone directly in the eye.

He snagged the most humiliating memory he could find: the only exam Hermione had ever failed when she was still in Muggle school, because she'd been so self-confident that she hadn't bothered to revise. He forced her to think of it, and Hermione stared at him, the potions book falling to the floor with a clatter that made Madam Pince hiss at them from her desk.

"He didn't control me," Harry said. "_For the last time, Hermione._ He _didn't_, all right?" He was shaking lightly, and the temptation to reach out and tear into her mind was hard to restrain. He turned away from her, staring out the open library door and through a window across the corridor into the April sunlight. That helped. "This is what I am now. We can be friends, but you've spent _two months_ insisting that I can't possibly be the real Harry Potter, just some spell-slave of Snape's. I'm_ not,_ all right? I don't want to hurt you, but you have to make a decision sooner or later. Will you accept this, or will you insist that Snape made me this way for the rest of your life? Because, if it's the latter, then we aren't friends any more. We can't be."

He couldn't stay here. He was going to use Legilimency on anyone in the vicinity soon, for the sheer pleasure of using it. He got to his feet and strode rapidly from the library, feeling his heart beat even faster than the heart of the small bird he still clutched in his hand.

Luckily, he met no one else between the library and the entrance doors; most people were still at lunch in the Great Hall. Harry had left early, and Hermione had followed him without hesitation. He supposed that should have warned him that she didn't just want to spend time with him.

He stepped swiftly out the doors and opened his hand. The bird shot straight up into the air, throat vibrating with its song. Harry, panting, leaned against the wall and watched it rise until it was just a small, singing dot over the Forbidden Forest.

Then he closed his eyes. He didn't feel on the brink of insanity any more, except in one way—a constant trapped itching under his skin, as though he wanted to run but he'd put chains on all his limbs. It would been so easy to get on his Firebolt, follow the bird, and keep flying.

_Snape was right about needing to use Legilimency, at least._

He stood there for what felt like an hour, until Dumbledore's gentle voice said, "Harry. Hermione told me you used Legilimency on her."

Harry swung, his eyes opening. He and the Headmaster had had no confrontation, no meeting even, since the day he'd returned and Dumbledore had made him a personal speech of congratulations before the school. That seemed likely to change now.

The Headmaster watched him with twinkling blue eyes that would have fooled Harry four months ago. Now he could see the sharpness behind them.

"We need to talk," Dumbledore said quietly.


	47. Harry and Dumbledore

Thanks for all the reviews yesterday! And no, this isn't going to be as simple as open submission from Harry or open battle between them.

_Chapter 47—Harry and Dumbledore_

"I trust you are comfortable, my boy?"

Harry gave a short nod. He sat on a chair in front of Dumbledore's desk, with a cup of tea near his hand and a lemon sherbet that Dumbledore had given him even though Harry had insisted he didn't want one. It seemed the Headmaster was determined to treat him like a child.

The thought made Harry want to be upset, but he took several deep breaths and retained his hold on his temper. He'd lost it with Hermione, when he should have been able to have self-control at any price, and that was ridiculous. Snape would have been ashamed of him, and so would Sirius. Harry liked to think that Sirius would have understood and accepted what he'd become, what he'd had to do to survive, but he wouldn't have if it meant hurting other people.

"Now." Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him and leaned forward. "Using Legilimency on a student of this school is quite a serious crime, Harry. Illegal, and it also amounts to the rape of a young and untrained mind."

"You surprise me, Headmaster." Harry heard his own voice emerge as blank, flat, and uncompromising, but then again, it was a bit too late to hide how he really felt about the man. "Wouldn't you have to call the Aurors for yourself, given how many times you've used it on your students?"

Dumbledore sat back and raised an eyebrow. "That is a bit different," he said. "I have trained to master my gift, and registered with the Ministry as a Legilimens. They know that whatever purpose I use my magic for means the good and safety of my school. The situation with you is somewhat different."

"Of course." Harry resisted the urge to take a sip of his tea, and instead stared over the Headmaster's shoulder. "I had to learn it on the fly and then kill the worst Dark Lord in a century. Why should that deserve any special consideration?"

Dumbledore gave a gusty sigh. "This is the reason that I did not leave you to grow up with a wizarding family."

It seemed a complete change of subject. Harry blinked and said, "What?"

"There is a taint of selfishness and worldliness in the best of us," Dumbledore said musingly, and this time he was the one who stared over Harry's shoulder, as if contemplating things long ago and far away. "And, encouraged, it can spread to become the largest stain on a soul. The greatest problem with it is that selfishness is so often encouraged in children, when other sins and negative traits are not. A spoiled child is the darling of his parents even if he's the horror of other people." He seemed to come back to himself, and tossed a kindly smile at Harry. "That is what I hoped I would prevent by sending you to grow up with the Dursleys. You would grow up without the fawning of the wizarding world, and thus you would not be damaged."

"And what about what the _Dursleys_ would do to me?" Harry asked through lips that felt numb with outrage.

"I knew the years would be dark and difficult. I told you that once before." Dumbledore waved a hand. "And I did know that they would not treat you the same way they treated their son. But do you not see, Harry? That was _necessary_, if you were to grow up into someone who could sacrifice his life for others. And I was right to do so." He glanced at Harry with pity behind his eyes. "See what has happened when you spent a few weeks in the company of a man who saw no reason not to encourage your more selfish qualities. Imagine what would have happened if you had been _raised_ like this."

Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or to scream. He folded his arms to clutch his chest. His magic, along with his Legilimency, wanted to explode out of him and do something to the office, and to Dumbledore, that would make the destruction he'd inflicted at the end of his fifth year look like nothing.

"You are not someone who uses Legilimency to rape the minds of other people," Dumbledore continued, voice both relentless and gentle. "Or you _were_ not, when you came to Hogwarts for the first time." He paused. "Did you know, Harry, that Professor Snape destroyed young Draco Malfoy's mind when he took you away? He is little more than a vegetable now, unable to retain new memories. What possible excuse can there be for that? Will you say that your teacher is a compassionate man now, someone I should have spared or kept in the school?"

It took long minutes for Harry to find his tongue. Then he said, "I never claimed that Snape was _compassionate_, Headmaster. He would laugh to hear himself described that way. I only told Hermione that he taught me what needed to be done. And yes, I did hear about Malfoy. And I know that a skilled Legilimens can go into a mind and fix that kind of damage, if he's careful." He sat up and stared at Dumbledore. "You're a skilled Legilimens, sir. Why is he still suffering?"

"I am not the one who inflicted the damage, my boy," Dumbledore parried smoothly. "Such a cure works best when the Legilimens who hurt the victim comes back and repairs his ravages."

"It works best, but that's not the only way. Why haven't you tried?" Harry cocked his head to the side and waited for an answer.

Dumbledore shook his head. "We were not speaking about young Malfoy, Harry, other than as an example of the kind of casual damage that Professor Snape heaps on those around him. Do you really want to be like him? That is what you will become, I think, if you remain in this school without a mentor."

"It was wrong to strike at Hermione like I did." Harry leaned back in his chair. "I acknowledge that, sir. But I wish she would stop pushing and pushing at me, and insisting that Snape has me under some kind of curse or potion. Why can't I defend the wizard who helped me when no one else would?"

"Miss Granger quite rightly fears that that kind of 'help' is worse than the affliction, my dear boy."

"Then what _should_ I have done?" Harry shook his head, eyes fixed just under Dumbledore's, so the man couldn't use Legilimency on him. "That's the problem. Everyone tells me I was wrong and shouldn't have done that, but Snape was the only one who actually told me that there was another way, and here it was. Everyone else just thinks that I should do something else, but they don't tell me what."

"To remain moral in war is a difficult and dangerous task, my boy—"

"And you don't think I achieved it."

Dumbledore was silent for long moments, and then he said, "No, Harry, I do not. And I regret that more than all the other wrongs you had to endure. But I can offer you a chance to be moral now."

Harry remained silent. He thought it was probably another "offer" that would make him want to laugh or scream, but he couldn't be sure until Dumbledore made it.

The Headmaster said softly, "You still live as if you were in a world with Voldemort, Harry. You measure all things by the standard of him. But you do not need to live that way. Soon you will ruin yourself through doing so."

Harry blinked. That part actually—made sense. He treated people like enemies when he didn't need to. And the standard that had served him so well for making decisions during the war, whether they would help him with killing Voldemort or not, hardly worked when there was no Voldemort. His goal was different now, had to be. And what did he want?

But he didn't have a chance to answer that question for himself before Dumbledore continued. "Those skills that you picked up for fighting the war are no longer useful. They should be allowed to atrophy. I hope that you will permit me to help you with that."

Harry clenched his hands. "What did you have in mind?" It was a great effort to keep his voice calm.

"Blocking your Legilimency." Dumbledore gave him a gentle, hopeful smile. "It will help you, Harry. And it will ensure that, even where your experiences have scarred you greatly, as with the months you spent under Professor Snape's tutelage, you will not give in to the temptation to hurt others."

"No," Harry said.

"I assure you this would work—"

"I'm sure it would." Harry sat up. "But I refuse, Professor. I refuse to give up my Legilimency. Professor Snape said it would have to be part of my mind from now on, that I would have to use it or it would escape my control, and he was right. If I'd been practicing it these last two months instead of trying to ignore it, I wouldn't have hurt Hermione. But blocking it off won't solve the problem. It won't get rid of the anger that made me hurt her in the first place. Isn't it better than I learn to control myself and use Legilimency in ordinary contexts, instead of as a weapon? That would be the harder struggle, the more _moral_ one. Wouldn't it, Professor?"

Dumbledore was silent again for long moments. Then he said, his tone chiding, "I have only ever wanted what was best for you, Harry. But in such matters as these, I have to think of the safety of the other students, too. You are a danger to them if you cannot control yourself, and it may take you weeks to learn to do that."

"I'll begin immediately," Harry said. "I'll concentrate on it to the exclusion of everything except schoolwork—"

"I'm afraid that's not good enough, Harry." Dumbledore sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you could give me a guarantee, it would be, but you cannot give me that."

Harry felt as if a cage were closing in around him. Once again he was told what he could not do, but not what he could do. He wanted to help others, but someone was always telling him he was a child, or he didn't have the skills yet, or anything he tried wasn't good enough—

And then he realized what the matter was, and nearly laughed aloud. _Of course. The only reason he can manipulate me is that he thinks he has the key to something I care about more than about controlling my life. _

He made his voice small and hunched his shoulders, casting his eyes down. "Can I—Professor, I never thought I'd have to do this. Can I have a few days to think about it?"

"You may," Dumbledore said genially. "But, in the meantime, you will have to spend the weekend in the hospital wing, so that you don't accidentally hurt the other students. I'll come for your decision Sunday evening." He paused, and his voice was sterner when he said, "If you are expelled, Harry, I fear that you will have to return to the Dursleys."

_Increase my isolation. Make me feel so desperate that I'd promise anything just to be normal and fit in again. _

And Dumbledore had probably used those tactics not because he wanted to be cruel, but because he felt as if he were acting for the greater good. They would have worked with him last year, Harry mused, at least once he got past the initial stage of yelling at Madam Pomfrey and trying to destroy everything in the hospital wing. He hadn't had control of his temper then.

Now he did.

And Dumbledore had no idea that Harry didn't want to control anyone else, _or_ be controlled. He just wanted to live his life as freely as possible, and deal with the consequences of what he'd gone through. He'd hoped he could do that in Hogwarts, but, well, when Dumbledore threatened to take Hogwarts away from him, Harry was not desperate enough to retain it that he'd give up his freedom.

He had a weapon that Dumbledore had forgotten he had, or, far more likely, had never imagined he would use. It was time to call in a few of the favors that the Minister owed him.

He left the Headmaster's office with almost a spring in his step.

* * *

Rufus was enjoying a late afternoon cup of tea when a white owl he recognized from Potter's hospital room fluttered up to his window and tapped briskly with her beak. He took the letter from her leg in some curiosity. Potter hadn't tried to communicate with him at all since the middle of March, when Rufus had asked if he wanted to attend one of the Death Eater trials and Potter had declined.

The letter was short, and simple, and, to be honest, something that Rufus had expected of Potter long before.

_April 25th, 1997_

_Dear Minister:_

_Dumbledore has pressed me too far, telling me that either I submit to have part of my magic blocked off or face expulsion. It is true that someone who learns Legilimency is supposed to have a mentor, and the Headmaster has not volunteered for that position himself. With that in mind, I'd like to declare my intention to choose my own guardian, and offer the position to Severus Snape. It may be that he won't consent to the idea. If he doesn't, please disregard this letter._

_I should know within two days if he plans to accept the position or not. Either a copy of the guardianship papers will come to you with his signature, or he'll visit you himself. _

_If he does accept, then please come to Hogwarts on Sunday evening, and bring the copy of the letter I addressed to the Dursleys with you. Hermione told me you have one. The transfer of guardianship of such an important student should have important witnesses, I think. _

_Thank you,_

_Harry Potter._

Rufus laughed quietly and fed the beautiful white owl a morsel of scone. She ate it quickly, but never took her golden eyes from him.

"Don't worry," Rufus told her. "I don't intend to disappoint your master. This will be fun." He quickly wrote an answering letter to Potter.

The picture of the expression on Dumbledore's face, once he heard of this, entertained him for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Severus caught the school owl that landed on his arm neatly, between one counterclockwise stirring motion and another. A few more turns, and the batch of Shrinking Solution was finished. Severus smirked at the cauldron. This potion was relatively simple, and Augusta Longbottom could have got any number of Potions masters to make it for her. But she, like several other pure-blood customers in the past month, wanted the glamour of being able to brag that Severus Snape, hero of the Second War, had brewed it.

That done, he turned to the owl. He thought for a moment that it was another commission or a letter from one of his scholarly colleagues, but he recognized the messy handwriting on the outside. He had seen it often enough on essays, hadn't he?

He pulled the envelope open, tossing the owl one of the mice he usually kept nearby to quiet the beast. The letter didn't contain a date or a salutation; it simply began with a single sentence.

_You were right._

Severus rolled his eyes and snorted. "Of course I was," he murmured, and continued reading.

_I think I could salvage my friendship with a bit more time, but I won't have that time. Dumbledore's threatened to expel me unless I agree to let him block off my Legilimency._

This time, Severus's eyes hurt from the force of the roll he gave them. "Oh, yes, _wonderful_ idea, Albus," he told the walls. "Let's make the boy unable to do anything other than right because he'd be your puppet, and you'd _just happen_ to make sure that his free will and desire to make his own choices were shut away along with the Legilimency."

_So I'd like to ask you to become my guardian—the mentor that every young Legilimens needs. I've already sent a letter to Minister Scrimgeour informing him of my intentions. But I didn't know if you would accept, so I've also enclosed the guardianship papers. You can sign them—or not. If you do, please send them on to Minister Scrimgeour. If you don't, then just return them with the owl. You don't even have to reply with a letter._

Severus shook his head. He had imagined the boy would be more self-confident than this, even asking him for a favor.

Then he realized the next paragraph explained why.

_I know I owe you too many debts already, and that means that I don't know if you'll accept the burden of taking me on. If you do, I promise that I will fit into the routine of your daily life. I'll help when I can, but I don't know much about Potions yet, so I'll need to learn. I'm determined to do this, sir, and to study other subjects and take my N.E.W.T.'s outside school. And I think you know what I can do when I'm determined._

Severus chuckled, even as he shook his head again. _He does not realize how much I will enjoy telling him that I told him so, and he does not realize just how useful even an awkward apprentice can be._

One thing he would have to teach Potter, that was clear, was to take advantage of his fame and power. There was hardly anything that the Boy-Who-Lived couldn't have, if he only stretched his hand out. And that he'd buried himself in Hogwarts for two months, appearing modest, would only make them the more eager.

_Please let me know as soon as possible. I have to make a decision by Sunday night. If you do agree, then both you and Scrimgeour can come to Hogwarts then. Scrimgeour will have the letter to my Muggle 'family' that you saw the original copy of. I think Dumbledore might be troublesome, so I want witnesses._

Severus imagined what Albus would say, would do, when he realized his little pawn was slipping away from him.

Just the thought made him close his eyes and sigh blissfully.

_Yours sincerely, _

_Harry Potter._

Still thinking of the expression on Albus's face, and how hard he would make Potter work on Potions, Severus drew out the guardianship papers still in the envelope. They were properly filled out, and the handwriting was legible, as it would not have been last year, before Potter learned seriousness.

With a flourish, Severus signed.


	48. Saturday

Thank you for the reviews yesterday! Dumbledore's comeuppance is not long in coming, but Harry has people he has to talk to first.

_Chapter 48—Saturday_

"You're certainly healthy enough, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey said, stepping back with a sigh. "As healthy as you could be when you swallowed a powerful poison, at least."

Harry ignored the undertone in her voice. He doubted she could have saved his life from the Medea's Draught even if she'd been able to reach him on top of the Astronomy Tower. He lay back in the bed she'd assigned to him and stared around moodily. Maybe because it had been a few weeks since the last Quidditch game, there were only two other students in the hospital wing right now: a Hufflepuff girl who'd somehow managed to enchant her hair to grow over her face, and Draco Malfoy.

_I wonder how much Madam Pomfrey knows about that. _"What's wrong with Malfoy?" he asked.

The mediwitch looked up from a tray of vials. "His memory's been damaged," she said, while Harry watched his rival's pale face. She shook her head, her expression full of pity. "Introduce yourself, and in a few minutes, he'll be asking who you are again. He's bewildered and sullen and uncooperative, and keeps asking when he can see his parents. He doesn't remember that his father is in prison and his mother is still recovering from whatever happened to her this summer."

It had been something to do with Voldemort, Harry knew, but he hadn't ever heard exactly what. He watched Malfoy until he got bored, then rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. He supposed he could have tried to heal Malfoy's mind, but his experience at _helping_ someone's mind was nonexistent. He'd just have to be patient, and hope that his letters to Scrimgeour and Snape produced results.

If they didn't…

Harry gave an impatient little shrug. If he had to leave Hogwarts, then he would. Merlin knew he could take the opportunity to embarrass Dumbledore viciously, and Snape had told him how much the Headmaster _hated_ that.

But he was _not_ giving up his magic. And he was _not_ going back to the Dursleys, where he was sure Dumbledore would insist on his going otherwise. He would be safer with any free Death Eaters than with his own temper and his Legilimency around his relatives. The temptation to see what they really thought of him would have been too great, and even greater the temptation to use some of the tricks Snape had taught him, which caused long-term damage and wouldn't be uncovered for years.

He closed his eyes and tried to doze. He didn't yet feel like reading the books he'd brought with him.

* * *

He awakened to an argument, though held in low enough voices that he couldn't be sure who the arguers were at first. He lay still, his eyes shut and his breathing light and soft. That couldn't have fooled Snape, but neither of the people at the end of the bed was the Potions master. Harry was sure he would have recognized _those_ slicing, dicing tones anywhere.

Finally, the words came into focus.

"—nothing _wrong _with him! I just think that he—"

"He's under some sort of curse, Ron! Do you think he would have hurt me otherwise?" Hermione sounded on the verge of tears. "I don't know what Snape did to him, and I've hunted in all the books I can find. But I think that he must have _some_ idea. He talks too rationally. Maybe he _wants_ to be under Snape's control. It's the one thing I haven't asked him. I've just assumed he's been the helpless victim all along, but maybe some of the changes he made were his own choice—"

"It took you long enough, Hermione," Harry drawled, opening his eyes.

She spun around and stared at him. Her eyes were puffy, as if she'd been crying already, but as she folded her arms and bristled up like Aunt Marge's dog Ripper, Harry had the feeling he wouldn't see her tears anytime soon. Ron hovered behind her, looking between his friends as if he weren't quite sure whether to stay or run from the room screaming.

"You _hurt_ me, Harry," Hermione began, in a tone just a bit less shrill than before. "And then you couldn't even stay to see if I was all right, but you ran away like your hair was on fire. What's _wrong_ with you? Why don't you want to be healed? I've tried and tried to help you, and you've just spat on the help as if it were nothing."

If he said what he really wanted to say, Harry knew, their friendship would crack down the middle. So he restrained his tongue, and looked at her, and waited until her cheeks flushed a little.

Then he said, "Yes, I've acted like that, and I'm sorry."

She stared at him. Ron's eyebrows flew up, and he edged a few cautious steps away, as though an apology were a prelude to an explosion.

"I've acted like that," Harry went on, calmer now, and determined to make her understand, "because, no matter what I said, you wouldn't believe I changed of my own free will. Snape had to be controlling me. That—that's _insulting_, Hermione. You don't think I can really make my own decisions, do you? Someone has to be behind them. Snape, or Dumbledore, or you, or Voldemort. But I'm not a pawn anymore. I was one most of my life, but I've finally learned that what I want is freedom to just control _myself_, not anyone else."

"But these aren't _good_ decisions," Hermione said earnestly, coming to the side of his bed and taking his hand. Harry fought down the impulse to pull back. No, he was hardly used to being touched anymore—Snape wasn't the kind of man to indulge in it—but he'd been back at Hogwarts for two months now, and he should have been more used to it than _that._

"And I know you're a good person," Hermione finished in a whisper.

"What do you think a good person is?" Harry asked, genuinely interested in the answer. He looked at Ron. Ron looked away.

"Someone who helps other people," Hermione answered instantly. She had leaned forward and was peering into Harry's eyes, as if she might find her lost friend in them. "Someone who tries to protect them. Someone who isn't afraid to stand openly against evil when it comes. The kind of person you were for the first five years you were at Hogwarts, Harry. The kind of person who doesn't manipulate his friends, or shove them away when they feel concern for him," she added, her voice growing sharper.

"I tried to do all of that," Harry said calmly. "I fought Voldemort so other people wouldn't have to. But it's foolish to think I could just walk out of the battle—or St. Mungo's—with a huge smile on my face, and be unaffected by that. I _changed_ to face him. Why can't you believe that?"

Hermione was silent, twisting the bedcovers with her free hand. Harry watched her and waited for an answer.

"Because," she said at last, in a voice so tiny that it was harder to hear than a whisper, "if you have changed so much, I have to think that maybe defeating Voldemort wasn't worth it."

Harry started to reply, but Ron interrupted before he could. "And we wanted to help," he said, leaning closer so that he held Harry's eyes and it was hard to look away. "And we got left out of the final confrontation between you and Voldemort. We always thought we'd be at your back, Harry. We—well, it's just hard to feel that it's over, because we thought we should have a bigger part in it than that, and you just went in and defeated him after a month with Snape. We helped you for _five years_, and we couldn't give you the courage to do that."

Harry studied them, his eyes flicking back and forth, until he was sure their expressions weren't merely faking openness, but sincere. Then he relaxed, and squeezed Hermione's hand, and reached out for Ron's.

"What really gave me the strength in the first place was Sirius's death," he said quietly. "I wouldn't have _wanted_ that kind of strength from you. It taught me determination, and it let me do nothing but study Occlumency for a whole month. So, by the time I tried to kill myself and Snape rescued me, I already knew what that kind of driving will was like. He taught me the Legilimency I needed, but he couldn't have taught me that will. Sirius did." For the first time in a long time, he felt, not grief for his godfather, but a kind of lasting peace. Things had to move on, and he couldn't remain his friends' innocent friend _or_ Sirius's grieving godson forever. He wanted to live, and locking himself into one place beyond possibility of change wouldn't let him do that. "I didn't know how left behind you felt. It makes sense now. But I really left you behind the day Sirius died in the Department of Mysteries, not the day I left the school with Snape or the day I decided I had to die. I promise."

Ron nodded slowly. "I guess I can see that, mate," he said. Then he hesitated. "It's just—it's awfully hard to forgive you for putting Fred and George in a position where they could be hurt."

"I know," Harry said calmly. He was comfortable with where he felt he rested in relation to Ron now: more distant than he had been, but not parted completely. The wound of what he had done would always rest between them. That was all right. "But I would have put you in danger if I'd chosen Hogwarts, or your family if I'd chosen the Burrow. And those would have been worse."

"It's still not _right,_" Ron muttered, sticking his hands in his robe pockets. "People aren't chess pieces."

Harry met his gaze. "I know," he repeated. "But that's why I made those decisions, too, so that no one else had to."

Ron nodded, and Harry looked back at Hermione. She'd been the one to press him more closely these last few months, and to still insist that Snape must have controlled him when Ron had seemed content to back off and watch for some sign of it. He didn't know how well she'd accept this.

She sniffled once, and then asked something that Harry hadn't expected. "And why are you in the hospital wing?"

"Because I used Legilimency on you," Harry said. He had no qualms about letting her know her part in his coming before Dumbledore. She started and flushed. "Dumbledore's separating me from the rest of the students until Sunday night, when I have to give him a decision."

Ron frowned. "About what?"

"Whether to have my Legilimency blocked or be expelled," Harry answered casually.

"_What_?" Ron roared, which made Madam Pomfrey stick her head out from the inner room of the hospital wing and hiss at him to be quiet. The Hufflepuff girl was gone, but Malfoy, who must have been under the influence of a sleeping potion, stirred uneasily in his slumber.

"If you cannot keep the noise down, Mr. Weasley, I will have to ask you to leave," the mediwitch said.

"Sorry, sorry, Madam Pomfrey," Ron muttered, and didn't say anything else until she'd gone back, slowly, into her office. Then he faced Harry, and with a hard tone in his voice, repeated, "What?"

"That's what he offered." Harry shrugged. "I'm a danger to the other students if I can't control my Legilimency, and anyway, it's illegal to read minds without special permission from the Ministry. And that's true. Snape even told me that every Legilimens is supposed to have a mentor while he's learning, and that really only ends when he's mastered enough of the mental art that he can handle himself. Which might take years. I'm here without a mentor, and I hurt Hermione." He looked at his other friend, who flinched, but was staring at her hands and didn't look up. "That makes him within his rights to decide my presence here is a danger to the other students."

"But he knows Legilimency," Ron pointed out, sounding baffled. "So he could have taught you himself."

"I won't let him into my mind," Harry said firmly. "He tried to change my memories after the battle, dim them to make my changes less 'traumatic' or some such bollocks." He smiled a bit at the expression on Ron's face. "So he wanted to change my mind in another way, by blocking it off."

"You didn't let him, did you?"

"I'm supposed to give him a decision Sunday night," Harry said. And he did trust his friends—almost—he really did—almost—but he couldn't chance speaking his plans aloud in a place where Dumbledore might overhear them.

"I don't believe that," Hermione said abruptly, looking up. "Dumbledore is a good man. I can't—he wouldn't want to hurt you that way, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "I think he is a good man, in the sense that he has good intentions," he said. "And he's sorry when they go wrong. But that doesn't prevent him from wanting to do more and more good. He doesn't want to admit his mistakes, and he can't ever just give up. I would have been happy to try and control my Legilimency better, but that's not an option for him. He has to 'fix' me, so this is the choice that he offered me."

Hermione looked down again. Then she said, "Do you think you'll ever come back to Hogwarts, Harry?"

_She thinks I'll let myself be expelled. Well, why not? I told them I wouldn't let Dumbledore block my Legilimency._

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."

"But you need to take your N.E.W.T.'s," she said anxiously, peering at him. "You can't have any job worth having until you do. And you—"

"For Merlin's _sake_, Hermione!" Ron burst out, earning himself another hiss from Madam Pomfrey's direction. "You _can_ just admit that you'll miss him, you know, even if you were the one who told Dumbledore on him!"

Ron was not often the most tactful person around, Harry thought wryly, while Hermione gave him a deadly glare.

"Fine," she said, a little primly, as she turned back. "I'll miss him. Now. What _are_ you going to do, Harry?"

"I'll figure something out," Harry said, and leaned back against the pillows with a grin that made his cheeks hurt. It made no sense—he was still in Hogwarts, Dumbledore's domain, and Dumbledore might still try some of his tricks before Harry left—but for now, just the thought that he was going free and would have that control of his life he so dearly desired was enough to content him. And he'd repaired his friendship with his friends, somewhat. "It might be that my chosen career will be of the kind that doesn't require N.E.W.T.'s, you know."

"But, Harry, only _illegal—_" Hermione began in distress.

Ron captured her arm firmly, nodded at Harry, said, "Good to see that you've thought about this, mate," and dragged Hermione out of the hospital wing.

Harry closed his eyes again. It was probably going to be all right between them. Never the same again, of course, and he couldn't really imagine that Hermione would give up all her efforts to help him; she was too much like Dumbledore in that way. Probably send him owl post with pamphlets titled things like _101 Ways to Get Around Your Slytherin Guardian._

If some of the suggestions were good, Harry might even use them. He would be Snape's student. He did not intend to be his _pet_. That would not have answered his purposes at all.

Feeling smug, he slept the sleep of the just.


	49. Sunday

Thank you again for the reviews! This chapter is indeed the Dumbledore confrontation.

_Chapter 49—Sunday_

Harry slowly opened one eye. He'd spent most of yesterday reading after the conversation with Ron and Hermione, and actually become caught up enough in Charms to go to sleep later than usual. He would _insist_ on studying Charms when he was in Bolthole, he thought as he sat up and stretched. Potions wasn't the only interesting subject, nor the only one that would be useful to him later in life.

_It might be if you become a Potions brewer._

But he didn't know that was what he'd be, and besides, even Snape used charms around his potions, to stabilize them or turn the stirring rod in a desired direction while he fetched a new ingredient. He had to assume that he'd have to have diverse skills even if he followed in Snape's footsteps exactly.

And if he couldn't? If he could only brew poisons, and that was the way he made his living from now on?

Harry bit thoughtfully into the toast on the tray of food that Dumbledore had ordered sent up with the house-elves. Well, then he might reconsider brewing _only_ Potions for a living. Contrary to what Dumbledore and, by this time, Hermione probably thought, he _could_ still make moral decisions. But he wouldn't overwhelm himself with hopeless grief for what he'd had to do during the war that wouldn't _accomplish_ anything. He'd have been happy to grieve the way they wanted him to if they could have showed him what it would have done. Even improving his soul, though a rather vague goal, sounded better than the forgetting and the return to a "normal" life that Dumbledore had wanted for him. What would that do? He couldn't roll back time. Even if most people in Hogwarts seemed to have decided he hadn't changed except for the worse, the wizards and witches outside the gates still considered him the killer of Voldemort and savior of the wizarding world.

He finished his breakfast and picked up his Charms book again, keeping a watchful eye on the door. For some reason, his confidence after the argument with Ron and Hermione yesterday had vanished. Even his bones were filled with the buzzing feeling that something was going to happen.

And, of course, something was. But this was the first time that Harry had thought it might not be the thing he wanted.

* * *

Rufus glanced at his clock. Only a few more hours until the evening, and the time he and Snape had agreed to go to the school and confront Dumbledore. Scrimgeour's letter would have reassured the boy that his guardianship papers had been accepted and they were riding to the rescue.

_Will we be in time?_

The problem with the plan, which would give him a great deal of pleasure if it worked, was that Rufus couldn't imagine Dumbledore rolling over and playing tame witness to his own humiliation. In fact, from what Snape had said to him in St. Mungo's while they waited for Potter to recover, it would be the thing he was _least_ likely to do, because it would allow people who thought poorly of him to escape with their minds unchanged.

Rufus rubbed his jaw and quelled the temptation to go early. Likely, the boy didn't need the support. Besides, he _did_ have work he needed to finish. He had had a series of sharp reminders in the last months that his life did not revolve around Harry Potter, as the Wizengamot challenged him for control. It seemed that they thought, because You-Know-Who was gone and he had been chosen as a wartime Minister, that he should now follow the war into quiet oblivion. Rufus had spent those months teaching them that their thinking was wrong, and for now they were quiet, but they would watch for any advantage—including, of course, unusual favor directed towards Britain's savior.

The list of the abuses Potter had suffered at the Muggles' hands was Rufus's secret weapon, of course. If the Wizengamot ever got noisy and clamorous enough to _need_ a specific target, he could give them Dumbledore, whom most of them would be even more pleased to destroy.

_Power makes you powerful enemies._

_And you need to do your paperwork, so that you have _time_ to see Potter this evening._

Rufus shook his head and turned to his scroll again. A Minister's work literally never ended.

* * *

Severus had finished brewing his latest commissioned potion, a new compound of his own that would not only cause the roses in his client's garden to grow larger but to shriek when someone intent on harming her came near. It was bottled and gleaming a cheerful poison-green color from the top of a shelf. It trembled when even Severus came near it, as if eager to be about its appointed task.

It was near noon. The sun shone through the windows he had felt safe, finally, to open when he was acknowledged as a hero. His house-elf would be in the kitchen preparing lunch, though Severus could hear no bangs from here.

There was no reason for him to feel so distracted, irritated, and worried, as if his face were about to burst into flames. By this time, he should have been buried deep enough in a Potions book to have snarled at the elf when it popped in to announce lunch. The creature had learned the hard way not to cook him hot meals during the middle of the day.

But he felt that way.

_I suppose I cannot go and fetch Potter early._ Severus paused, and then shook his head as if a flea had wandered into his ear.

_Of course not. That would look weak, and Scrimgeour has already said that he will not leave his precious paper early. And if the boy cannot defend himself until we get there, then he does not deserve my tutelage._

He forced himself to sit down and pick up a book. It was on the theoretical nature of both curses and potions, and the places where some poisons blended into the Dark Arts and became, truly, Dark.

The combination of his two favorite subjects did the trick. He did, indeed, snarl at the house-elf when it popped up, and he didn't remember Potter's probable plight until he was deep into his second sandwich.

And then, again, he had to dismiss it. _The boy managed to fool Albus this long. He will have to carry on fooling him for a bit longer. He is the one who told us to come Sunday evening, the day of his decision, just to be dramatic. He has no one to blame but himself if he suffers for our not arriving earlier than that._

* * *

Harry opened his eyes slowly. He had been asleep longer than he had meant to be, from the shadows on the walls. And the drugged heaviness in his limbs was not good, not good at all. He recognized the sensation from a time or two in his bed at Snape's house, and he had to calm his breathing and the immediate impulse to strike out. Such potions didn't have adverse effects if you woke from them slowly. But trying to react too quickly made you helpless and confused.

"Ah, my dear boy. You are awake."

_He probably drugged my food and sent Madam Pomfrey away, _Harry thought, using Occlumency to chain down his unfortunate reactions again, and funnel his thoughts in one direction that would be clear and helpful, the way he had during the summer. He turned his head, though his neck felt as if it were a burlap bag filled with sand, and gave a pleasant nod to Dumbledore.

"Sir," he said.

And meanwhile his thoughts chattered, _I should have told them to come on Saturday._

Then came the moment of reaction, of rebellion, the moment when he would have snorted in contempt if he wanted to be that open in front of Dumbledore. _And if I were that helpless, they would be in their right minds to laugh at me. I said that I wanted freedom and control of my own life, didn't I? Then I have to prove that I'm worthy of it, and I can't if I just roll over and give up at the first challenge._

"Have you reconsidered, Harry?" Dumbledore asked softly. He looked quite relaxed as he sat in the chair at Harry's bedside, the chair both Ron and Hermione had ignored because they wanted to be closer to him than that. "I knew you left our meeting still determined, as you would say it, to 'preserve your freedom' and arguing with me in your head. I almost fancied that you preferred expulsion to the loss of a talent that has caused you nothing but grief. Is that still true? Is that what you really want? Even now, when you could speak the word and I would act, make one precise surgical cut, and then you could have your old life back?"

"Don't you understand?" Harry said, and his voice was weary and upset. Maybe that was all right. It would certainly convince Dumbledore he was further along the path to giving up than he really was. "Even if you take away the Legilimency, the changes I went through would still remain. My more—flexible morals, my impatience with normal life, my dislike of the normal things my friends do, my need to _accomplish_ things. You can't alter those with one precise surgical cut, sir."

The Headmaster's face remained patient, which was enough, Harry thought bitterly, to show that he did not understand.

"All of us can choose the way we act, Harry," he said calmly. "We make choices again and again. Do you remember my saying that to you? That, just because the Sorting Hat may have seen Slytherin qualities in you, what House you belonged in depended on the way you acted and not what you had as potential? I confess myself puzzled why you should have decided that you had no choice but to act Slytherin now, after resisting greater temptations as a second-year."

"I didn't think of it as acting Slytherin," Harry snapped. "I thought of it as doing something that would actually defeat Voldemort. _Sir._"

"And if it was the wrong course?"

"What would _you_ have suggested?"

"I am sure I do not know, Harry."

"There," Harry said, feeling a grim triumph. It would have been better, far better, if he could actually have convinced Dumbledore, but the old man was a stubborn as a goat and far more in love with his own arguments. "Do you see? If one person tells you a way to get rid of the Dark Lord and another person tells you to wait and see and perhaps another option will be along in time—"

"You did not allow me to say," Dumbledore chided him gently, "that just because I do not know the way to act immediately does not make me _wrong._"

Harry paused. He had to admit the justice of that observation; his time with Snape had made him more open to other ways of seeing than he had been before. "But Voldemort's still gone now, sir," he said.

"Yes. And you are left with a mark on your soul that need never have been there." The Headmaster's voice rang with sadness and, other than its being louder, Harry thought it sounded like Hermione's when she said that she didn't know if defeating Voldemort had been worth what it cost Harry.

"I would have thought this was what you wanted," he said. He didn't lower the volume of his voice, because he didn't want to look weak, but he tried to sound calmer. "When you told me that the prophecy said I had to kill him, should I have waited and looked around for help? It was _my_ responsibility."

"I always meant you to have help," said Dumbledore. "Do you remember what else I told you at the same time? That I had always cared for you, and made mistakes because of that care, of that love? How could you think I would want you to face Voldemort without support at your back, or destroy yourself getting to him?"

"I don't know, sir," Harry said, trying to fold his arms. The remnants of the sleeping potion kept his muscles heavy and sluggish, though, and his arms did no more than twitch a bit. Since Harry had learned Legilimency, being helpless in body didn't worry him as much, and he ignored the impulse to panic. "You said at the same time that you knew you were condemning me to a 'dark and difficult' life at the Dursleys. You didn't mind _that_ sacrifice, so why should you have minded sacrificing me now?"

Dumbledore sighed, and looked very old, and very wise, and very pained. "You are not keeping the chronological order of events in mind, Harry. I did not think I would mind sacrificing you when you were a baby who had just performed a miracle we desperately needed. I did mind, very much, after you came to the wizarding world and I had begun to care for you." He captured Harry's eye, though Harry was doing his best to look in the Headmaster's direction without meeting his gaze. "It could have been so different, Harry. You could have told me that you were grieving over Sirius and devising a desperate plan, and I would have turned that aside, healed and helped you."

Harry was silent. Everything he had gone through with Snape need never have happened, then. He could have learned some safer method of defeating Voldemort without having to commit crimes like destroying Bellatrix's mind, or putting the Weasley twins in danger, or hurting Hermione. And those _were_ crimes, no matter how hard he tried to think of them as necessary. Was it the less murder if he killed someone, just because that someone was about to attack an innocent, or was a criminal herself? And Hermione had only been concerned for him.

And he could have remained the way he was.

Then he took a deep breath, and reminded himself that regret and guilt had their place, but that was _not_ in battle. He needed regret to keep from turning into the kind of monster Snape had feared he might become. He could change nothing by useless brooding on it, though.

Perhaps everything he had gone through with Snape need never have happened. But the fact was, it _had_ happened, and Dumbledore's attempt to make him mourn lost chances was stupid. It was the better, the more moral, course to accept what he had done and find ways of living with it, even making up for it. Sniffling and sobbing over lost time was what a child would do.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, glancing back at Dumbledore. "But even if what you say is true, I can only be sorry and go on. _This _is what I did, so _this_ is the way that I have to act and live now. It would be cowardly to pretend I'm a good person because I had the possible chance to be one. It was my fault for distrusting you and not coming to you about my grief for Sirius, maybe, but—"

And then his words stuck in his throat, because Dumbledore had pulled something small and shining from a robe pocket.

_A Time-Turner._

"Sir?" Harry croaked.

"There is always a chance to rearrange matters to what we would have them be," Dumbledore breathed, his eyes on the tiny hourglass. "I have used this before, but never, I think, for a purpose so important. And _you_ are the one who must make the decision this time, Harry. Go back to whichever moment you choose—the moment you nearly killed yourself on the Tower, perhaps, or the moment when Severus convinced you that you were within your rights to kill Bellatrix. Or further than that, when you first began to grieve and obsess over Sirius this summer. Talk to yourself, be a voice of reason for your poor troubled youth, and the stains that you have inflicted on your soul may be washed away."

He held out the Time-Turner to Harry.

Harry became aware that his left hand, which he had half-stretched out, was shaking. He snapped it shut into a fist and held it close to his side. His breathing rasped heavily in his ears, as if Dumbledore had given a potion that suspended time and not only one that relaxed his muscles. He licked his lips.

He _could_. It would take many more turns of the hourglass than had sufficed for him and Hermione to rescue Sirius in his third year, he would have to count carefully, but thanks to his own determination, he was no longer afraid that he might rush through the count and mess it up. And he could think of any number of finely-balanced moments in the last few months when his mind could have been turned one way or the other by a slight tap. His own self coming from the future with word of what he would do might be enough. Did he _want_ to live with killing Bellatrix, putting his friends in danger, or changing into the kind of person who would rather have Snape for a guardian than Dumbledore? He didn't have to. And wasn't the effort to keep his sacrifices meaningful just the service of an abstract principle, less significant than the specific and real result of keeping certain people alive?

_If I look at it that way, though, keeping my soul clean is just an abstract principle, too. And Dumbledore's not offering me this because he wants Bellatrix to live or Hermione not to have her worst memory in the forefront of her mind, or even because he wants Voldemort dead. He's offering me this because he wants me to be a different person when the war's done. That's it, and that's the only reason._

Harry's eyes went back to Dumbledore's face. The Headmaster was smiling gently, holding the Time-Turner out still, with no sign of strain in his arm or his expression.

_He could just go back and stop me himself. Why doesn't he?_

And the answer came like a flash of lightning.

_What Snape said about him being afraid to make a mistake. It cripples the way he acts. And he wants _me _to be the one to make this decision, so that _I'm _implicated in my own actions, and if this turns out to be a horrible mistake, the consequences won't touch him. He can just shake his head and say he gave me the ability to change time, but I'm the one who chose to do it._

_I think I've sacrificed enough for Dumbledore's clean conscience. My conscience isn't clean, but at least I know what I'm responsible for and what I'm not._

"No, sir," he said quietly.

There was a very slight change in Dumbledore's countenance, but it was enough. Harry felt as if time had come back again.

"You don't know what you're giving up, Harry," the Headmaster whispered. "The chance for everything to be as it was again."

"I don't _want_ it to be as it was," Harry said clearly. "I _want_ to be this way."

He was shaking as if he'd passed through a thunderstorm. His chest ached and his face prickled as if he'd been crying, though when he lifted his hand, he could feel no tears. He clenched his hands, and found his arms moving more easily. In another few moments, the last remnants of the sleeping potion would have worn off.

"With your best friends sundered from you?" Dumbledore asked, deep grief in his voice. "With murder on your conscience?" He paused, then added, as if he had saved the worst for last, "With your own soul no longer at home in Gryffindor Tower?"

_If my priorities are out of place, his can be, too. And Snape told me that he hated Slytherins. _

"My best friends don't hate me," Harry said, easing back against his pillows, and never taking his eyes from Dumbledore. "Given time, we'll make this up. As for the others, I think how I act and how I deal with my crimes should be matters for me, Headmaster, not you. Thank you for reminding me that I _do_ need to deal with those consequences, and can't run from them. Thank you for temping me, so I know how much further I could have fallen."

"Harry," Dumbledore began, "I have only done what I think best for you—"

"I very much doubt that, Albus."

Harry looked up, his heart pounding furiously, as Snape and Scrimgeour entered through the door of the hospital wing. Dumbledore rose to his feet, eyes wary and watchful. Scrimgeour remained in front of him, wand drawn, while Snape circled around him to reach Harry. He stared at Harry's face for an instant, then snorted. "A sleeping potion? I am ashamed that such an elementary trick should have caught you off-guard, Mr. Potter."

Harry had to grin. _This_ was the kind of guardian he wanted, honest about his failings, and brusque to the point of rudeness. Perhaps, once, he would have reveled in Dumbledore's kindness, but Dumbledore couldn't be trusted, and the ten years he had forced Harry to spend with the Dursleys had inculcated the kind of distrust of adults that made it impossible, he thought, for him to accept that affection even if Dumbledore had been the most honest wizard in the world. Flawed and horrible this might be, but he preferred it. "You'll have to teach me how to resist it, sir," he said, and managed to pull back the covers and stand.

Snape sneered. "It is knowledge you should have had already. But then, Merlin knows that I have spent my fair share of time teaching you first-year knowledge."

"Dear me, Albus," Scrimgeour murmured, "is that a Time-Turner? I don't recall approving your request for one."

Harry turned around to watch as Snape began summoning his belongings. The Headmaster at least knew when he was beaten, and could be graceful under pressure. His smile was cheerful as he surrendered the small hourglass to Scrimgeour. "I borrowed it for a time, Rufus. Didn't want to trouble you."

Scrimgeour, Harry saw, wasn't smiling as he hung the Time-Turner around his neck; his eyes could probably have bored holes in the Headmaster if his skull weren't so resistant. "Borrowing things may have worked under Cornelius, Albus. It doesn't with me."

"Come, Potter," Snape said, drawing him towards the doors. His trunk hovered behind them, Harry saw now, along with his Firebolt, and the books he'd been reading had been neatly packed. "We are leaving."

"I am afraid," Dumbledore said, turning to face them, "that I cannot let you leave with a student of this school under your care, Severus. You are no longer a teacher." His magic began to build around them. Harry raised an eyebrow, and reached for his wand.

"He is Potter's guardian, by Potter's choice," Scrimgeour said mildly. "The papers have been properly signed and witnessed by both Potter and Snape, and were delivered to the Ministry on Friday night."

And then something very strange happened.

Harry saw something inside Dumbledore crumple. It was as if the man had believed, all along, that he not only was doing the best thing for Harry, but that Harry would see and appreciate that sooner or later. Now that he was confronted with incontrovertible evidence that that wasn't so, that Harry preferred the teacher who had been a git to him for five years over the Headmaster, he could only stare.

Harry felt uncomfortable walking past him with Snape, but he was the one who had made it necessary. Harry could have stayed in Hogwarts at least until the end of the term if he hadn't, and perhaps he would have stayed next year, too. Dumbledore had wanted too much from him, and, in pushing, had lost it all.

"Harry," Dumbledore breathed.

"Yes, Headmaster?" Harry didn't look over his shoulder.

"You should be in St. Mungo's, under the care of the Healers, until you are psychologically back to normal." But Dumbledore's voice was dull and hopeless.

"Maybe I should," Harry said gently, looking back this time, though he still didn't meet Dumbledore's eyes. "But at this point, I couldn't trust your recommendation, just because it was _you_ making it. I would rather take my chances with someone I know will try to manipulate and control me for his own benefit—"

Snape hissed at him. "You will _pay_ for that, Potter."

"—than with someone who could do almost anything and convince himself it was for my own good," Harry finished. "Good-bye, Professor. I hope you'll be well."

Scrimgeour stepped past him, smiling. It was an unpleasant smile. Harry was suddenly glad he'd made an ally of Scrimgeour from the first. The man might be patient enough to work beside someone he disliked to their mutual benefit, but when he could turn against that person, the claws came out.

"Given what I know about your recommendations for Potter's health in the past, Albus," he said, his voice lowering, "I would not trust you to recommend Healers with Merlin himself standing behind you and nodding in agreement."

And that was all Harry heard, because he and Snape walked out of the hospital wing then.

Dumbledore wasn't really evil, Harry thought as they walked. Just hopelessly, hopelessly blinded by the affection he had for Harry. And that, combined with his inability to admit his own mistakes, made him about as unsuitable a guardian for Harry as it was possible to be.

"Do you know—" Snape began.

"I know," Harry said, not looking up. "You were right about my coming back to Hogwarts, and I was wrong. You told me so."

Snape let out another irritated hiss, probably because Harry had deprived him of the opportunity to say it himself. Harry grinned. _At least I'm beginning our re-acquaintance on the right foot._


	50. For the Foreseeable Future

Thank you so much for the reviews yesterday!

And several people guessed correctly: that was the second-to-last chapter. _This_ chapter ends the story. I suppose I'm not entirely ruling out a sequel, but this ending will make it difficult. Far more likely that I'll be absent from fandom a few months, and then begin another, different story.

Thank you for reading!

_Chapter 50—For the Foreseeable Future_

Snape looked up with a sneer. "You have been poking about your food for the past _hour_, Potter. Do you ever intend to eat it and act like a grateful human being, or should I tell my house-elf that we have a dog at our table and will need proper meals for it?"

Harry ignored him. If he responded to taunts like that, it was entirely possible that he would miss the subtle signs that would identify the sleeping potion he was sure Snape had put in the food.

Then he straightened and narrowed his eyes. _What if the reason I can't identify a sleeping potion in the food is the fact that it's not a sleeping potion? No one said it had to be, and Merlin knows Snape has more ways than one to manipulate me. So, think. What other kind of potion might he want to dose me with?_

And once he thought of that, and thought over their past history, he knew. He bent down and took a deep sniff of the food, and this time noted an acrid undertone he wouldn't have picked up on before, as if the food had been very slightly broiled in vinegar. He sat back and smiled at his guardian.

"You can tell the house-elf that you have a dog staying with you, if you want," he said. "But until you stop having it put suggestion potions in my food, I'd rather starve than eat what it makes."

Snape raised an eyebrow and studied Harry for a moment. Then he nodded. "And how powerful a dose?"

"Fairly powerful," Harry said. "You overdid it."

"No, I did not," said Snape. "My house-elf overdid it trying to cover the smell, which to such a magical creature stands out quite strongly."

Harry considered that. It might well be true, for all he knew. But Snape could also be lying to test him.

"All right," he said finally, taking a chance.

Snape rolled his eyes even as the house-elf appeared with another plate of food, this one, Harry noted almost immediately, lacking the acrid scent. "And do you know that, Potter? Or will you accept my word as the final arbiter of truth and justice that it is?"

"Neither," said Harry cheerfully, and started eating the sandwich in front of him. He'd spent more than half an hour trying to identify the potion in his food this time, and he was fairly hungry. "It's an educated guess based on what little I've read about suggestion potions in the past few days."

Snape only smiled. "Do tell me if you feel any unusual urges to dump cold water over your head in the next few hours," he murmured, and turned back to the book he held.

Harry nodded and continued eating. That was the game they played at meals, so far, and probably would until Snape got tired of it: he put some kind of potion into Harry's food, or not, and Harry had to try to identify it. If he did, then he got food without the potion, as well as an advance in his knowledge, which Snape would say was by far the more precious gift. If he didn't, then Snape got to have a few hours of peace as Harry slept it off, and then a game of "I told you so" when Harry awoke.

Well, so far he had. This was the first time Snape had used a suggestion potion. It almost certainly wouldn't be the last. Harry chewed and decided to study suggestion potions more. Even if Snape used something different tomorrow, which he might do in the interests of being predictable, he would undoubtedly come back to them.

And Harry had had enough of other people gaining control of his actions.

That was why he appreciated Snape's guardianship, he thought, sniffing his pumpkin juice carefully before he took a sip. The man played games with him, games that could end with either of them losing, though of course they were usually tilted in Snape's favor. Harry had a chance to win, and he learned as he did so, and it kept him far more alert and occupied than he would have been at Hogwarts by now, especially with the way that he continued to tear through his textbooks.

From the outside, his life probably looked horrible. But Harry had come to terms with it, and for now, the way he thought about things made sense for the limited world he occupied with Snape.

Everything was a game.

* * *

Severus watched out the window of Bolthole as Potter swooped on his Firebolt around and around the heavily warded meadow, and snorted. He had not warded it for the boy. He had thought, in the days before Potter came to live here, that he might finally have the freedom to start an herb garden not as dangerous as the Forbidden Forest, and not as cramped as the indoor greenhouse.

Of course, Potter had proceeded to save only those plants he recognized, trample the rest, and turn the trampled ground into a temporary Quidditch Pitch.

The boy whirled around steeply and plunged towards the ground. Severus rolled his eyes in disgust and turned back to his potion. He was sure Potter would not kill himself, and neither was he doing it to worry Severus and try to gain some advantage in this unending contest of theirs. He had to know that Severus regularly became so involved in brewing that he did not look out the window for hours at a time. He usually knew when Potter came back inside, though; he had charmed the wards to sting him when that was the case, if only in self-defense.

An owl tapped at the window. Severus let it in and relieved it of its burden without interest. Much post had come for the boy in the last month since he had changed his residence to Bolthole. Most of it was equally without interest, requests for autographs or for the impossible, as if just because Potter had killed the Dark Lord with Legilimency he should have been capable of laying hands on some terminally ill child and healing her, too. Severus recognized the owls from his clients at once and removed them to a separate part of the house, one inaccessible to the boy. He did not want his professional reputation to dip as Potter sought a way to sabotage the potions.

He paused when he saw the crest on this letter, though, and recognized the handwriting. After a moment, he opened it.

The letter was written on parchment thick and creamy enough to make a point, in ink that was actually golden.

_May 20th, 1997_

_From: The Ministry of Magic_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_You are cordially invited to a recognition ceremony for your services to our world, to be held at Stonehenge on the fourth of June, at three-o'clock. You will of course oblige us by being an hour early, so that we may take some prefatory photographs and speak to you of a few honors that we wish to confer upon you. Among them is the Order of Merlin, First Class. _

_Please respond immediately. I look forward to seeing such an honored ally again._

_Yours,_

_Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic._

Severus had to smirk. He suspected the casual mention of which honor the Minister meant to confer on Potter in the last sentence was entirely Scrimgeour's doing, even if he had dictated the letter—which he looked to have done, as the handwriting in the letter itself was unfamiliar. And the brisk tone was best. Scrimgeour had to have known how many similar letters Potter had ignored in the last few months, and so this one gave him little choice about appearing and said nothing about the length of time the ceremony would take.

Scrimgeour was another one who joined in their game-playing. So they openly tried to manipulate one another, and everyone knew the manipulations existed even if not exactly what they were at first, and so they all got along very comfortably.

Of course, one did not truly ignore or refuse an Order of Merlin. And Severus did not intend to give Potter the option to do so. He went to write an answer to the Minister.

_If Potter does not want me interfering in his life, he should have intercepted his own post._

* * *

Harry tugged the collar of his formal dress robes and did his best not to glare at Snape. They were appearing in public for the first time since Harry had gone from Hogwarts to Bolthole, and he and Snape had to at least look like guardian and ward, so that Dumbledore, whom Harry fully expected to try something if he had the chance, had no excuse to try and get him back. Glaring as if they hated each other was not part of the plan.

Of course, it seemed that Scrimgeour had invited most of the Ministry dignitaries, including people with titles Harry wasn't sure existed. He had to move around an enormous crowd of people, shaking hands, nodding, making small talk, and posing for so many pictures that the muscles around his mouth hurt. He couldn't even enjoy Stonehenge, which had been warded and cleared of all Muggles for the occasion, because by the time he even _thought_ of glancing at the rocks, someone else needed to speak with him.

Snape made rounds himself, of course, but to smaller numbers of people and with much more polished grace than Harry could manage. And he seemed to receive nearly as many Potions commissions as compliments or attempts to win his attention for some mad project or personal ambition. At least the time he spent here wouldn't be wasted, the way Harry felt his time was.

_Then make use of it._

Harry took a deep breath and stood straight. He _could_ make use of it, couldn't it? He didn't _have_ to let anyone impose on him. He'd learned that lesson with Dumbledore. If the mindless chattering and the photographs bothered him so much, and he had no choice about facing them, then he should learn to extract what advantage he could from them.

For example, a portly witch had just stepped up to him, one hand extended for him to shake it. "I just wanted to meet the one who saved us all," she gushed, words that Harry had heard, in one variant or another, three hundred times already today.

He managed to force a smile onto his face as he held his hand out. "And what's your name, Madam?"

"Flora Polyphonia," she said, and simpered at him. "You wouldn't have heard of me, of course. I give money to make some of the finest brooms in the world—my contributions were behind the development of the new Firebolt—but I prefer to keep my involvement quiet."

Harry felt a surge of interest. If that was true, then he might get something out of this after all, something very concrete.

He put as much of a wistful small-boy tone into his voice as he could. "Do you know…"

"What?" Polyphonia seized eagerly on his words, as if she imagined that he would ask for something only she could gratify.

"I've often thought that I might play Quidditch for the English national team someday." Harry turned a shining face up to her, trying to imagine the way Colin Creevey had looked in his first year. "But of course, I can't do that without the best broom, and the broom I have is a few years old by now. I'll always treasure it, of course, because it was the last present from my godfather, but if you know they're making a new Firebolt—" He sighed and shook his head. "I was just imagining what I could do with it."

The witch abruptly looked uncomfortable. She glanced away from him, then leaned near enough to say, "Well, of course, the broom won't be ready for sale to the public for quite some time yet."

"Oh, I'd keep it _dead_ secret that I had it," Harry reassured her solemnly. "And anyway, if it did become public knowledge, it wouldn't matter much, would it? I mean, no one would be angry. I'm _Harry Potter._"

He struck a pose that he'd seen Malfoy use a time or two with Rita Skeeter. If the woman had any sense, it would have disgusted her. But instead, the witch just looked more and more uncomfortable.

"The broom _truly_ is not ready, Harry," she said.

_Or you have nothing to do with making it, _Harry thought coolly, studying her. _Involved with the development of it but wanting to keep your name out of the public eye, my arse._

"Too bad," he said, with a slight shrug. "I was looking forward to riding it." He turned away with a motion he knew was coolly dismissive—he'd learned it from Snape—and took his course back to the center of the ring, where Scrimgeour would give him the Order of Merlin.

Snape had been watching, of course, because Snape watched everything. He appeared at Harry's shoulder as the Minister began his speech and murmured, "At last you are learning not to surround yourself with idiots. Amazing that it only took you sixteen years to learn to do so."

"I obviously haven't learned completely, have I?" Harry said, not breaking stride, and glancing slightly sideways at him.

Snape would have retaliated, Harry was certain, but Scrimgeour called Harry up just at that moment, and Harry held a fixed smile for the cameras as they went through the little ceremony. His brain felt detached from it all, scanning the cheering faces in the audience and wondering how many of them would want something from him, and if it was going to be like this for the rest of his life. If so, he would just have to learn how to deal with it. He thought he'd made a good start.

And then his eye caught on two faces in the crowd, and stopped. Ron and Hermione had received permission from their parents to come and see him, then. Ron was applauding harder than anyone else in sight, a big grin on his face, and Hermione had a more solemn expression, but she no longer looked as if Harry were going to turn into a monster right in front of her.

_I still have friends. Despite everything, I still have them._

Harry raised his hand—no one needed to know that he was really only waving to two people—and smiled with true graciousness, and then stepped forward to say the "few words" he and Scrimgeour had decided were necessary.

* * *

Severus remained behind the Minister, studying Potter. The boy had grown into some of his fame, then, but he was having ridiculous delusions of grandeur if he truly thought he could outmaneuver Severus. Severus had won their latest battle, the one that had ended in Harry capitulating and agreeing to come to this ceremony, rather decisively, and Potter would do well to remember that.

"—a few words about my mentor, Severus Snape."

Severus blinked and stood straighter. The brat had turned so that everyone, or at least most of the people directly in the front of the crowed, and therefore the ones that most mattered, could see him. He gestured with one hand, and his voice rose, aided by the _Sonorus_ charm that Scrimgeour had cast before he started rattling on about Potter's greatness.

"Professor Snape was the one who trained me in the Legilimency I needed to defeat Voldemort," said Potter, and if he thought it was ridiculous that most in the audience still flinched at the sound of that name, at least he didn't have to _look_ at them, and see just how ludicrous it was. "He is also the one who stopped an earlier plan of mine that would not have worked, and has been showing me how to survive in a world that I once believed to be beyond my control. He made sacrifices through years as a spy in the Dark Lord's inner circle that have not yet been honored enough. He truly deserves your applause, both for being a hero himself and for helping me stand here today."

The applause was deafening. Severus sneered half-heartedly, and reminded himself never to get too comfortable. They weren't clapping for him; they were clapping because Harry Potter had asked them to.

And then Potter went on in a tone that matched the rest of his speech, so much so that Severus did not realize at first what he had said.

"He has also graciously agreed to heal some of the harms of the war that would otherwise go unhealed. For example, he will be contributing some of his time and potions to the Ministry's Committee on the Unity of the Magical Arts, which has been set up to discuss new regulations on which magic is truly Dark, and to blend potions, charms, and others studies to try and create a stronger understanding of the way these different fields interact. And he has agreed to heal Draco Malfoy, whose memory has been left in a sadly damaged state due to a Legilimency attack in December of last year."

Severus froze, staring at Potter. Potter raised an eyebrow at him—he was facing Severus, so no one else in the crowd saw that particular expression—and gave him a slow smile that was far too Slytherin, really.

Severus had not agreed to either of those things.

But he could not refuse, of course, not when Potter had called him on them in public, and not without damaging his own "heroic" reputation which he relied on to help him with an even better life in the future.

He smoothed his frozen expression into something as near a smile as he was capable of, and stepped past Potter to cast the _Sonorus_ charm on his own voice. He would pledge these duties, and he would perform them, because Potter had trapped him with no way out of it.

But he would outmaneuver Potter in turn. That was the way it worked. They might help each other, but each thought the other worthy of help only if he proved he was, constantly and unendingly.

Perhaps Severus deserved this, for underestimating Potter.

Not that he would ever admit it.

* * *

Rufus wanted to howl in laughter. But he didn't, preserving the outward show of calm decorum that would be expected of the Minister of Magic at an event like this.

He enjoyed the sensation. It made a great difference from wanting to howl in frustration but not being able to do so because he had to deal calmly and rationally with his opponents, after all.

He stood with his arms folded, and watched as Snape came forwards and accepted the terms of his "further service to the magical community" with a practiced polish. Potter stepped back and stood watching him, with a smile that many would only take as further proof how much he adored his mentor.

Once or twice, Snape looked at Rufus. Rufus sent a benign smile back.

He had been the one to admit that Snape's contribution to the Committee on the Unity of the Magical Arts would be welcome, since he was a Potions master, but Potter had been the one to propose the idea. And his thought that Snape should be made to heal the boy whose mind he'd destroyed was nothing short of inspired.

Potter and Snape were both in capable hands—their own, and those of the other. The last Death Eaters were being dragged into custody even as they stood there. The Wizengamot was quiet at the moment, or rather, buzzing furiously in Dumbledore's direction, because they did not approve of his "borrowing" Time-Turners any more than Rufus did, and more and more investigation revealed more and more unaccountable "borrowings." Dumbledore, no fool, was lying low for the moment and not trying to interfere openly in British politics.

Rufus loved his life.

* * *

Harry knew his victory over Snape wouldn't last, of course. But nothing did, just like his frozen state of mind after he killed Bellatrix, or his grief over Sirius, or his anger at Dumbledore.

Or his fights with his friends.

He found Ron and Hermione easily enough after the ceremony. Hermione had cast some spell that let them shove past other wizards without appearing to do so. Harry reached them, and received a handshake and a slap on the back from Ron, and a hug from Hermione.

"Do you feel better now?" she asked, stepping back and staring at him.

Harry nodded firmly. "The wounds in my mind have healed further without as many people around as there were at Hogwarts," he said. "And I've been studying hard enough to make my brains fall out of my ears. Believe me," he added, when Hermione looked doubtful. "When Snape says _study_, it _happens._"

"And have you—" Ron said, and then stopped.

"Come to terms with what I did? Yeah." Harry faced him. "I wish I could have come up with a way to defeat Bellatrix that didn't put Fred and George in danger. And what I did to her was unnecessary." He shuddered slightly, then shook his head. He didn't dream about his venture into Bellatrix's mind anymore. Snape said it was because he refused to give Harry any more Dreamless Sleep, and so Harry had forced himself not to need the psychological crutch of the potion. Harry thought it had far more to do with conscious control of his Occlumency. "I should have insisted on a few more days to learn how to send dreams warning them."

Ron gave a tentative nod. Harry didn't think they'd ever be exactly back to normal, but this was better.

"Would you mind if I wrote to you?" he added quietly. "You'd have to send the letter with Hedwig, because Snape would go mad if he thought I was receiving personal post by other owls. The constant pleas for help from total strangers are bad enough. But—"

"Of _course_ we'll write!" Hermione said firmly.

"Of course," Ron echoed.

Harry relaxed. "Good." He couldn't say he missed his friends as terribly as he once would have, but he'd missed them. He thought that was a sign his empathy had recovered. Snape would probably say it was a sign of softness in the head, of course, but Snape was very far from knowing everything.

"What are you going to do, mate?" Ron asked then, predictably enough.

"I have a talent for some potions, believe it or not," Harry said vaguely enough. There were some things he still didn't feel comfortable telling them. "And there's Quidditch. But the more I look into charms, the more I think I'm interested in inventing spells. There's always something I want to do, and which the charm doesn't quite do. Or you have to cast two spells practically at the same time to get that result, and no matter how quickly I cast them, it's not enough."

"Being a spell creator takes a lot of work, Harry." Hermione, predictably enough. "Research, knowledge of several fields of magic, a training course as intense as any Auror training, and—"

Harry gave her a concentrated look. "And you think I'll have _trouble_ with that?"

Hermione snapped her mouth shut, as if she were remembering, as she should, how quickly Harry had mastered Occlumency and Legilimency. "Maybe not, no," she said at last.

Harry nodded. "And that's not necessarily a fixed and final career. I might become a dueling instructor, or a Legilimens consultant, or something else entirely. But for the foreseeable future, I'm Snape's ward." He looked over his shoulder and found his guardian watching him with half-shut eyes, no doubt plotting his revenge. "Of course, I turn seventeen in two months."

"Harry."

That was Ron's voice, and he sounded serious. Harry turned to face him again.

Ron had his chess-playing look again, as if, should the answer to his question be negative, he was ready to interfere and change it. "Are you happy?" he asked.

Harry smiled. It was a relief to be able to do that, finally, without feeling like he was hiding some great secret from his friends behind the expression. And despite the fact that Snape would undoubtedly try to take revenge sometime soon after they got back to Bolthole, despite the fact that other people would of course try to control him in the future, and though that future wasn't settled beyond a doubt yet, Harry knew the next words he spoke were true.

"Yes," he said. "I am." He hesitated, then added, because it was the only way he thought he could make them understand, "I'm free."

**The End.**

Thank you again, very much, for reading and/or reviewing. If you're interested in any further stories, I'll post news about them in my profile.

Farewell!


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